I find a perverse pleasure in destroying the things I once had. I find that I have developed a taste for painful things. There are even times when I deliberately place myself in situations where I know I'll only get hurt in the end. It wasn't a choice, you know. Somehow, with everything that has happened to me, I became like this. A demented ego, dancing over his bones.
They say happiness is a choice, but I find that happiness is not as fruitful as misery, so I choose the latter. I become stagnant when I'm happy. I crave for something to shake my world. And even if I complain about my life when things become too loose, deep inside I'm reveling in it. I'm loving it. Because I feel that it is the time when I really grow as a person. The time when I really live.
I like to push myself to extremes because I like to know my limits. I go to all lengths just to avoid mediocrity and I'm lucky in that sense, I suppose, since I seem to attract attention and criticism wherever I stay too long. One night I'm filled to my ears with alcohol, dancing recklessly in a gay bar. The next I'm lying on my bed covering my face with my pillow, filling my ears with tears. Sounds like a mental disorder maybe. Yeah, I've known for a long time that I am a neurotic. And I find a perverse pleasure in it.
Last night I was rereading Stephen King's "Misery", and there was a part where he was describing the antagonist (Annie Wilkes, the nurse) as a neurotic. That she was moving through the world as if she was the central character in a drama everyone watches. That her ego was the most important thing for her, and everything she does must never contradict it. I thought of her and these blog entries. I thought of her and how I sometimes look at people looking queerly at me as if they know me, and wonder if I'm like the star in this reality show whose cameras are hidden from my sight. I thought of her and how I transform the most mundane happenings in my life into grand and significant things the world should read about.
Sometimes I get sick of myself because I'm like this. If I were you, I'd roll my eyes at seeing yet another note and tell my friends, "Great, here he goes again..." I'm sick of being self-serving, staring at my navel and squeezing all possible pretentiously profound thoughts out of it. But I suppose that you, being my friend here, have no choice but to live with it. It isn't like I'm tagging you so you can read this, right? But I appreciate that you do though. I really do. I suppose it is part of what ails me.
I find a perverse pleasure in admitting that I'm wrong and that I'm the world's biggest loser. Somehow, reader, somehow that helps me make it through the next day. In admitting that I failed and that I am lost, I find my direction. Even if that direction only brings me to circles.
So what is the purpose of all these you may ask? Maybe I just wanted to waste your time. Maybe it is because I find a perverse pleasure in destroying the things I once had, including my readership.
Nitwit. Oddment. Blubber. Tweak.
The product of a wandering mind. I don't always have to make sense. I don't always have to be right.
They say happiness is a choice, but I find that happiness is not as fruitful as misery, so I choose the latter. I become stagnant when I'm happy. I crave for something to shake my world. And even if I complain about my life when things become too loose, deep inside I'm reveling in it. I'm loving it. Because I feel that it is the time when I really grow as a person. The time when I really live.
I like to push myself to extremes because I like to know my limits. I go to all lengths just to avoid mediocrity and I'm lucky in that sense, I suppose, since I seem to attract attention and criticism wherever I stay too long. One night I'm filled to my ears with alcohol, dancing recklessly in a gay bar. The next I'm lying on my bed covering my face with my pillow, filling my ears with tears. Sounds like a mental disorder maybe. Yeah, I've known for a long time that I am a neurotic. And I find a perverse pleasure in it.
Last night I was rereading Stephen King's "Misery", and there was a part where he was describing the antagonist (Annie Wilkes, the nurse) as a neurotic. That she was moving through the world as if she was the central character in a drama everyone watches. That her ego was the most important thing for her, and everything she does must never contradict it. I thought of her and these blog entries. I thought of her and how I sometimes look at people looking queerly at me as if they know me, and wonder if I'm like the star in this reality show whose cameras are hidden from my sight. I thought of her and how I transform the most mundane happenings in my life into grand and significant things the world should read about.
Sometimes I get sick of myself because I'm like this. If I were you, I'd roll my eyes at seeing yet another note and tell my friends, "Great, here he goes again..." I'm sick of being self-serving, staring at my navel and squeezing all possible pretentiously profound thoughts out of it. But I suppose that you, being my friend here, have no choice but to live with it. It isn't like I'm tagging you so you can read this, right? But I appreciate that you do though. I really do. I suppose it is part of what ails me.
I find a perverse pleasure in admitting that I'm wrong and that I'm the world's biggest loser. Somehow, reader, somehow that helps me make it through the next day. In admitting that I failed and that I am lost, I find my direction. Even if that direction only brings me to circles.
So what is the purpose of all these you may ask? Maybe I just wanted to waste your time. Maybe it is because I find a perverse pleasure in destroying the things I once had, including my readership.
Nitwit. Oddment. Blubber. Tweak.
The product of a wandering mind. I don't always have to make sense. I don't always have to be right.
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