6. Myself

I’m fine, these are just meandering thoughts and stories as I finish up the final five blogs.

Three children laughed at me on the Metro today. I smelled of rotten energy drink and chicken wings, my perv stache was poorly kept and I may or may not have had gunk in my eye. “That guy looks like such a pedophile,” they snickered, I sunk into my seat and turned up my iPod. Their glares continued to pierce my soul through the reflection of the window. I was moments away from breaking down and crying… they were eight. I reluctantly trudged up the hill to my job, which is an eclectic blend of busy work, today I stuffed envelopes, it was far from stimulating. Tonight I’ll probably have a shower and watch another Seinfeld re-run if I’m feeling adventurous. And this my friends is my life… a destructive mush of nothingness and the occasional stripping down of my perverted appearance.

My life up this point has been a non-event peppered with horribly embarrassing moments. It all started with my first memory, the day I discovered that poo came out of my body. It was Halloween 1988, I was a surly 18 month old with a chip on my shoulder, anyway my parents let me run naked through the house as they were distributing candy. The site of Peter Pans and Ghosts knocking on my door every thirty seconds got me more than excited, devastated by this new development I squeezed out a little nugget of poo, maybe the size of a pee. Discovering that this had fallen from my body absolutely terrified me, I tried to run away, only loosening my innocent bowels causing another plop of poo to fall, then another, and another. I began screaming at the top of my lungs, running out the door, and rolling around on the grass in front of my house. It’s a miracle I didn’t become some anal retentive weirdo after this event.

Fast forward four years, grade one, Mrs. Smithson’s class. I was an absolute math king at the time, this no longer is the case, however in my younger years I was a fucking calculator. Anyway, Mrs. Smithson had developed this delightful little teaching technique where we had to answer as many math questions as possible in one minute. This was the highlight of my day, I took pride in the fact that I was an absolute fiend at this math game, however, this guy named Nathan Chang began to put up some serious scores that threatened my superiority. Anyway, Nathan and I faced off in one of the most dubious math games ever, I was so into my competitive spirit that I ended up urinating midway through the test. I was so terrified of losing that I continued the test, finishing up victorious but with urine all over me. The gurlie I was into at the time, Courtney, wouldn’t talk to me for the rest of the year, but it was worth it.

Grade ten. I was sitting on the couch with my girlfriend at the time. I had to fart so bad while we were watching He Got Game, I very elegantly tried to squeak it out but I shit my pants, I finished watching the movie as I was terrified of moving. Louise, I’m sorry I never told you this.

Grade twelve, pooed my pants again, this time in school.

I’m not sure what I’m trying to say here, either I’m a walking embarrassment, or I’m incontinent, or both. But anyway this isn’t why I hate myself.

I’m 21 years old and have absolutely nothing to show for it except for this blog and my ten year old haircut. Sure I went through the motions and got into a good university, sure I’ll end up going to law school and become a lawyer in some capacity. But I worry that I’m so apathetic and sedated that I won’t even appreciate these successes when they occur. I do this with everything, I push people away because I fear emotion on any level that isn’t in the form of instant gratification. I fear feeling, because it would make an existence I’m certain is trivial, worth something. It would instill worry, doubt, and regret, that this life I live is finite and when I cease to exist, these feelings will vanish. Irrational I know, that is why I’m so frustrated with myself.

Am I happy? In spurts, but the baseline is this type of down that is so monotonous it’s sickening. It’s this loneliness that whenever I fall in love or meet someone amazing, I instantly feel sadder, because I’ve entered their happy little lives.

I was reading this over to my friend Kate and when I finished she had a tear in her eye. She said “you need to cap it off with something a little happier,” she suggested, “but damn am I ever good looking.”

So… damn am I ever good looking.

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~ by thingsifuckinghate on June 25, 2008.