Art. Music. Life. Et cetera.

I felt like I wanted to say something. Then as I got this open, a wave of ineffable, sourceless weariness washed over me. The very idea of thinking, much less expressing myself, became exhausting. Typing even these few words was an enormous effort, or at least getting going was. The more I type the easier it gets.

I read an abridged version of some of Plutarch’s Lives recently. Finished today. Interesting, but also sort of made me wonder what all the fuss over Rome and Greece was about. They just sound like people everywhere – great and shitty by turns, seemingly at random.

Now I’ve finished the book. Wish it hadn’t been abridged. I need to get my ass to the library. Out of shit to read again. 

Reading is a compulsive, obsessive activity for me. It’s almost like the default activity of my life. If I’m not doing anything else, I am typically reading, and if reading can be at all combined with what I’m doing, such as if I’m eating, I will usually do so. In fact, I get restless and uncomfortable if I don’t have something to read when I eat or go to the bathroom. If I have to I will read the back of the food box. It doesn’t really matter WHAT I am reading. I just have to read. I don’t know why, nor do I remember when this began. Nor do I often think about how fucking bizarre it is that I feel physically compelled to spend a huge amount of time staring at printed words. It’s especially odd because I have terrible retention – I have to read something several times to remember more than the gist of it. Readers like to feel superior to TV-watchers, but now that I’m really thinking about it, how different is what I do, really, than what they do? From this perspective it seems just as… well, mindless and compulsive.


It’s funny how differently people hear things sometimes. “Touch, Peel, and Stand” by Days of the New for example. It’s had a place in my ‘mean mood’ playlist for a long time. I always took it as a hostile, aggressive song, about feeling cruel and vicious and hurtful. My partner, I learned recently, hears it as a drug song, about abusing drugs and getting fucked up. 

 I have a song called ‘Pickled Member’ in my MP3 collection. Doubtless that hails from an… earlier period of my life. Ah, teenage self, will you ever entirely die?

Probably not. Hell, there’s evidence that at the core I am still basically a pre-teen. For instance, if you asked me my favorite food, and I were to answer you honestly, I would be forced to say pizza and birthday cake. I am turning 30 this December… theoretically. It would seem that my real age is roughly six.

No wonder I have very few friends. I can hardly put up with myself – how can anyone else? 

I have a weirdly mixed view of myself. On the one hand, I amuse myself enormously, and I feel basically fond of myself. On the other hand, I reflexively depreciate myself and automatically reject most compliments. Even now I feel a schizophrenic response, considering myself – a mix of “I’m so neat!” and “Ugh, I’m so arrogant, I can’t believe I’m thinking this.” 

I suppose it’s progress. I used to just flat-out hate myself.

I feel thirsty. Time to fix that, I guess.


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