The American Caliban (substitute) wrote,
The American Caliban

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Couteau. Cou-teau. COU-TEAU

Occasionally the contradictions, impossibilities, and disastrous limitations of my life all line up and point at me like accusing fingers and I completely freak out. This is one of those times. How is it that I get up every day and do this?

When I've once again noticed that my whole life is a huge freaking wreck and I spout off about it, people are nice and try to tell me the good things about me. These are always the things about me that make other people happy, like a good waiter would. Glad to be of service. Would rather have an actual life, like you. There may well be many people with tidy rooms, pleasant mates, and empty lives. I'd take that deal about now.

I'm that guy that every woman thinks would be great for someone else to date. The hypocrisy is almost worst than the rejection. Almost.

If I took out a #2 pencil and wrote down the specifics of my current life as a short paragraph on a nice clean new legal pad I would then immediately shoot myself in the head. Keep pencils away from me.

It's odd how I can simultaneously be having a pleasant conversation with friends, be entertaining, listen attentively and tell stories, and still at the same time feel that terrible yawning hellpit of self-hatred inside me. They're faking it, they're tolerating me, when I'm not around they shake their heads and say "poor guy, I wish he'd get it but there's no way".

I think I'll probably be alone until the day I die. There hasn't been much evidence to the contrary throughout my adult life. I wonder how one makes a bargain with that?

I refuse to be romantically self-indulgent about it. Bad news is just bad news, like shit on your shoe or a slough of toxic chemicals.
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