Inconclusive Findings I Like to Share

I just saw a picture that made me hit my fist against a brick wall. So I figured, what better time than to return to the vague, vaguer, public, and unread world of blogging? I haven't written anything in a while because my mind has been going in two directions.

1. There was a girl earlier this summer. Yes, I know that seems like a long time ago to emotionally healthy fucks, people who cavalierly stream through one human connection after another like confetti, and myself six months ago. But it's me. It takes me a long time to get over attachment. I'm crazy like that. Getting over people involves a constant logical reassurance of the way things objectively are, seguewayed longer flights of fancy for why things just might subjectively not be that way, an increasingly sliding scale of less obsessiveness and getting back into the habit of not-being an uninteresting twit, and a healthy dose of cold-turkey on faith in humanity. In-between this involves a lot of certain and dire mapping of my future levels of happiness from here to the end.

Oh. And many internal pats-on-the-back for thinking for five minutes the way I thought six months ago. Like a normal person. Logically, I can agree with everyone else that, without the details, it's practically archetypal—this could have been written 10 years ago minus a little cynicism and some big words—and should simply remain that way: private. But, as I'll get to later, I'm pretty sure it is relatively private. And this isn't about her; it's about the fact at how upset seeing a picture is still making me, how evident a lack of progress in my quest to turn into stone over that (I guess) meaningless period that happened what seems like already a long time ago—if we're talking about the relativity in terms of how much it apparently meant. If I've been objectively told by another person's words and actions that a relationship truly doesn't matter, I really would like to not waste all my time, mental and linear, on it. Again, if it hasn't been made clear so far, I'm crazy like that.

2. There's that and my job. My secret job, which is the greatest, most creative, most rewarding job there is. But let's not get crazy with the happiness-for-me. It's not a dayjob, I'm still poor, it's low on the totem pole, it's still 15 steps and a sheer drop away from where I want to be. Also, it's been trying enough lately to get to a position where it's almost average, almost grind-ish. And it vacuums all independent thought of mine, meaning I haven't written anything on here or in my own creative life. My sole imaginary output is an office in-joke where I write missives to my boss-boss from Michael Bay and stick them on the door to an editing bay for all to read. (And honestly, I'm being outdone.)

So the lack of updates. The dreaded, previously unthought option of deleting six years of blog musings and written archives of my personality has been put on the table. This is for one basic reason: it no longer has a connection with my daily life. No one I talk to on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis reads this. No one I talk to really spends much time on the Internet, which, maybe I was crazy, but was one of my relied forums for human connection. It's all this accumulative disconnect I feel more, which I never thought would get worse, even if I can acknowledge (again with the logic) that it's just an ebbing and flowing. The only connect there is is the aforementioned lessened humanity-faith and its connection to my increased chronic dissatisfaction with fucking everything. Every unreturned phone call or email becomes lumped in. And so the blog is just another once-important component of my life diminished with nothing to replace it in its diminishing.

Nothing changes. No one is making me feel better and therefore I'm not making anyone else feel better. I'm verbose and sad. A tad too self-obsessed. I've written the same variant and I can't tell the difference. I'm either putting this out in public because I secretly hope someone who cares reads it and connects or someone anonymous reads it, connects, then cares. But due to diminished returns, further separation between current and former readers in different states, I've had a little trouble giving a fuck.

I'm sorry. This has been a bad, bi-polar week, month, season, what-have-you. Probably the biggest reason I haven't written anything is that I always took the advice to write down stuff to figure stuff out. And, as has become apparent, none of this stuff has been figured out since I learned to read or write, and never will be figured. When you're prone to constant, alienated thoughts that you're different in the way that your life is going to be constant passion, disappointment, and perpetual struggle, and your one solace has been to aggrandize the supposed nobility of it all, therein lies a fallacy. That fallacy, inconsistent with the whole masochistic noblesse oblige vibe, is that if you bring to light that self-aggrandized nobility, that somehow it will change things. Not only can't I see that change, but it feels like I shouldn't be living a life where I'm shilling for myself with so much misguided effort.

My friend Josh, his wife gave birth to a baby girl Sunday morning. It's never been a question about if there are good things out there. It's only been about how to find them and how long they'll stay, and what to do when they're done.