“Almost Six Months”

Some honest, dark pandemic thoughts

Photo: Cristian Palmer on Unsplash

I’m having writer’s block. It’s been going on for about a week.

I’ve been toggling between three documents, all very relevant to human experiences, all unfinished. I sometimes will break from them to apply for a job I don’t want, and then when I return, my eyes will scan the page as if I was trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone. I see foreign paragraphs about nonsense written by a stranger.

Apparently, most of what’s been on my mind is about love and sex, both topics which I feel remarkably underqualified to write about.

I’ve been in love so many times, I can’t stand it, and I’ve not had nearly enough sex for my stories about it to be worth a shit.

I like sex, except when I don’t, which is most of the time. I don’t give a fuck about the physical act. I like the connection. It’s one of the uniquely female qualities I have the displeasure of living with.

I’d love to just be happy hopping on dicks, but the type of man I happen to be attracted to usually has what I’d call very average anatomy. It’s easier to get off on my own.

In that same vein, I also started writing a very engaging piece about how much men enjoy pornography, and then immediately stopped writing it because I realized I would get hate from women who don’t like the idea that men enjoy pornography. (Men watch porn. It’s part of life.)

I need to stop worrying so much about my audience. I’m so much more honest when I know that nobody is going to read what I say, but then what’s the fucking point to writing anything down in the first place if nobody is going to read it?

I like followers, but I don’t know how to write for them. I don’t know what people want. I don’t even know what I want most of the time.

I think people want to know “how.” That’s what I’m figuring out as I explore the algorithms of this place.

People want knowledge about “how” they can get further. They want to go at light speed in the direction of their desires, so much so that now there’s a huge market that teaches people how to do this. It’s a money business.

“The idea generation-” that’s where I live. The problem is, I’m not sure I see the point to it, even though I’m being drug along with the current.

In a month from today, I’ll be 35 years old.

I’ve been somewhat of a nihilist since I was a teenager. I realized at 16 that the universe is so vast, nothing I ever did in life would ever mean anything or be relevant to the whole. Thus, I just kind of just, wasted time. A lot of that time I spent living in other people’s heads, exploring their thoughts, and then being spat out, covered in the cytoplasm, flopping on the floor like a dying fish.

I’m very bright, but I don’t love many things. I don’t find pleasure in work. I don’t find pleasure in material possessions. I live in a 90 square foot apartment and I own very little. I’d love to own less.

I don’t really care what other people think of me. I’m just sort of “here.”

I keep wondering why we don’t get a choice about whether or not we have to exist. I feel like we should. I’d never consider ending my life, because that’s a selfish thing to do to the whole seven people who love me. However, I wish we got a choice at the beginning of it all.

I try to explain how I feel to other people, but they don’t seem to understand. They mainly like other people, and they like to connect. They enjoy being around others. They enjoy being active and contributing to “society.”

Since I often sway toward nihilism, I just want to go sit somewhere and wait it out.

I’m resentful that I didn’t get a choice about being brought here; that I don’t get a choice about how I get to leave.

I was asked a few years ago if I wanted to be buried or cremated and I was resentful that those were my options. I always assumed I’d just go into a cave and meld back into the earth.

I finally discovered body farms a few years ago and I’ve decided that I want to donate my body to science, as that will get me closest to what I believe is a natural end.

Why are these my choices? Don’t other people think about this shit?

Well, I’m sure they do, and then they stop because it’s uncomfortable. They go busy themselves for a while with an activity or a task. As long as the ants keep marching, they won’t notice the magnifying glass.

I don’t know why I need to participate in moving the motor of American society, but it infuriates me that I do.

35. What a time to be alive. What a great time to have writer’s block, when all you can think about is death and the desire to never participate in society.

Every day, it becomes clearer to me as to why I am an alcoholic. Alcohol is a great way to hide from everything unpleasant. I read a meme this morning about being drunk and sitting on a toilet peeing, and just smiling because you’re having a good time and are so “happy.”

I remember those times when I still drank. I don’t know if I was ever happy, but I think if just for a brief minute, I felt like I was.

This isn’t some sort of weird cry for help. I don’t get real very often anymore, and I feel like because I don’t, space in my head is occupied with heavy thoughts that are better put on paper, and then forgotten. This is a way to do that, and I appreciate all of you for reading and helping me lighten the load a little.

I’ll try to come through with some new stuff for you all, as soon as the blockage clears. While a lot of people try to portray that they’re happy all the time, I’d much rather admit that I am human. This might not be sexy enough for the information avenue of achievement that’s allegedly paved in gold, but it’s here for you, should you need it.

I’m an unconventional thinker with quick wit. Coach. Sociologist. Mindset shift guru. Creator of getthefuckoff.com and the Get The F*ck Off Podcast

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