Surprising Honesty, Inspired by a Draught of Sleepiness

Written 2/16/10

Socially inept to a dangerous extreme, I am the awkward animal, or rather shadow. Clumsy and odd in every way. Sure I'm good at plastering on a smile or two, the severe fakeness of which is sickening most probably even to the most gullible and thick-headed. I like to be the imaginary friend, the quiet air to which you mumble when it's deafeningly quiet or roaringly loud and you just need to hear yourself think. I am blank, I am the awkward cardboard cutout that won't remain upright, and whose blank eyes will remain unyielding to your most heart-wrenching story, or otherwise wear an expression so exaggerated that it can almost seem like a parody.

But I assure you my intentions are always sincere. I have hidden myself away to myself so well that it is almost impossible to appropriately express and vocalize anything regarding myself to the stranger. I am the greatest hypocrite however in that I can survive a social situation only when hanging weakly to the role of listener as others supply me fodder about themselves. I am the quiet statue.

So securely is my own identity locked away that even writing about my personal self is a pain, a task. Every word must be searched for and dragged out of the darkness where, screeching in the light they deteriorate to dust. Weak, pitiful words come forth, I stutter like the old woman aged past senility to insanity, the art of speech forgotten and foaming at the mouth like a sick pet. This is me in a social situation. Any situation which entails the presence of another human being. And I disgust myself so thoroughly at these times. I am the enigma.

At a stage where I realize the value of friendship and envy the friendships between others I am utterly incapable of allowing entrance to anyone at all. And yet I expect the opposite of others. Unjudged entrance to their thoughts, where I will simply listen and nod, or offer advice, or react in some appropriate manner. And maybe if I like them I'll label this sad mockery of human interaction "friendship." Making friends in the past depended purely on compounding the effects of one lucky chance moment as much as possible. One person, by mere chance, or charity happens to speak to me and not find me disgusting. This person continues to speak to me for who knows what reason (maybe because I hence forth choose to make myself awkwardly available to them if I find them interesting), maybe for enough time for them to classify me as a "friend". This "friend" has other friends whom I am now inevitably lurking around. Soon these people may also be "friends". But what seperates me, perhaps from all regular people is even at this stage I have yet to share anything "personal" on my mind, any real concern, any significant thought. I simply make myself available as a reflective surface which some, perhaps through narcissm, may grow attachment for, a fondness of.

I aim for nothing if not to be "nice." But there is an extent, an understandable extent, to which a person can reveal their demons to a person who will only shower them with "niceness" showing no character or demons themselves. Its ironic but its possibly this very characteristic that makes me repulsive. I am the shadow of a human being among others. Yet I have no reason to hide, no reason for my unfounded paranoia. But then why?

Am I so pathetic as to fear the possibility of "getting hurt"? Being the gooey-in-the-center ROCK that I've made of myself it's hard to imagine that anyone could sting my "skin". Yet experience says otherwise. And more than this, the more serious real reason seems to be the inexplicable near-hatred I can have for myself. I've said I'm an enigma; I love myself and I hate myself, I am the most awesome human being and the most repulsive, the most easy to hate for myself. And it is this hatred that loves to lock away everything I supposedly hate or criticize about myself, which is apparently, almost everything that gives any real shape to my identity. And even in this frantic frustration, in some deep recess this "hatred" laughs at what a joke I am.

7. SCIENCE

...And apparently the mysterious weight-loss stops as soon as I take two days off from writing. No gain/no loss since the last time I poasted, yo. Yeah yeah correlation does not imply causation yadda yadda, but srsly gaiz, I DON'T EVEN

In conclusion, I think everyone should own a scale (unless you're a sad sap prone to eating disorders). Otherwise shit you could learn is A-mazing.

Future research: What would happen if I then set out to draw daily? I hypothesize I'll drop like 2 pounds a day if I even think of trying. >__>

6. Rhythm

Ugh, I can't believe it's barely been a week and I already feel like phail in terms of keeping this up. What is it like not having a block? Is it tasty? I hear of this "rhythm" that is apparently possible to get in to, but even in the best of times, seven years ago, the most I ever had were "waves" that came and went by months.

Maybe a more green-book approach is needed here. Yet...obviously I still have hardcore fans, apparently. Like Ridwan. ಠ_ಠ What to do...

(Winter quarter has thus far been the excuse I've been beating in my head to justify not resuming email rants with the wife. I'm such a cheap-ass. T_T)

Unrelatedly, I can't help being reminded of toilet-training. Not potty-training as in toddlers, but...teaching one to go at the same time every day. For example, first thing when you wake up. Obviously anything they train children to do is supposedly healthy...like giving in to all biological urges at the exact same time each day (not in pants), and eating 4+ tiny meals, and taking daily siestas at a bit past noon. Goddammit.

I swear this forcing myself to write something anything everyday thing for the past week is the secret cause to my apparently losing a pound a day lately. Is that even healthy?!

5. Float

Why that word should have been such a special unlocker for this many years is honestly a bit beyond me. (Unrelated trivia: Gone with the Wind was translated into a single word in Chinese: 飘.) I wish I can not only illustrate but demonstrate.

My hands would weep if they could.















Virgin teal on rocks.

4. Reconstruction & Damage Control

Situation is so tight and desperate that just thinking about the mammoth task ahead gives me a headache and sore eyes. And yet, something had started to shine...like tear streaks on rock. Something of that old-school price of sweat and blood.

It's tunnel-vision in the good sense.

Or even if it isn't, there's not much I can do.

3. Post Winter Solstice

It was the first time I saw not night when I left the building today.

Twilight is a beautiful word to match two beautiful circadian times, but the association nowadays, thanks to Stephanie Meyers, is not one most pleasant. Pity.


There will be a big gig going down at Newport in a few hours. No less than four touring buses were crowding from my building to the by-then-dark alleyway behind the hall.

Fans will be cheering me to sleep tonight.

2. The "it" factor

...Kind of like having smoke rising upward out of your head, except the smoke is fixable like grass and is in the process of being mowed off in a forward-back, forward-back motion. Shaved. Vacuumed. Exercise-exercise excised.