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Clean Something, Clean Anything

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It was the strangest thing, after I got done writing that last post I read three articles about hating on white people and stuff like that, and then I went inside and started washing dishes. Then I did that cleaning project I wanted to do: take shit from under my bed and dust it off and sweep under there and shit like that. I told…what was my wife’s name again? Molly. I told Molly I would do it sometime soon yesterday. So I did it today. Why not?

Anyway I had no intention of doing that shit when I was sitting out there on the balcony. I figured, fuck it, I’ll just write a bunch of shit down. Fuck this day. Waste it.

It was either the coffee or the writing that gave me the energy to start cleaning shit up. Or it was because I went into the living room and Morgan was there talking on the phone and I was going to say something to him but I figured I might as well do the dishes first while he was on the phone and once I started actually moving my life from disorder to order in that way, I had the strength to move forward onto bigger projects.

After I cleaned under my bed and shit, the apartment felt pretty good, less dusty anwyay. I heated up some quiche and I went back out to the balcony. Morgan and I sat there just staring out into the day. It is really nice outside right now. It’s too much too fast though. I miss the spring. It was spring yesterday, but today it will be summer. Who knows if we’ll ever go back to spring because last week it was pretty much late winter.

But we’re always romanticizing something that probably isn’t real. Like the idyllic part of our childhood before we became self-conscious, and other shit like that.

Now I’m laying on the bed, typing more shit. It’s about time to go to work. I guess I have to get dressed and set up the feeders for the cats. What else? I guess that’s really it, although I should start work on Molly’s website, or else apply for a job, and I really should get back on my exercise program before I lose all the gains I was seeing, at least I should do the sit-ups. 

I don’t know if I’ll do any of that. I might just lay here and fall asleep. Fuck it. I have a weird life. Morgan asked me if I would ever get a tattoo. I said I didn’t know. When I was 16, I wanted flames going up my arms from my wrists like the lead singer of Linkin Park. He said that would have been ok. I said yeah but everyone would know that I had gotten that tattoo in the 90’s. 

I thought about it and I probably wouldn’t get a tattoo because who has the time or the money to do something like that. It would be cool to have a tattoo, but the way I live I probably wouldn’t get around to planning something like that. According to my value system it’s frivolous. I try to only do things that aren’t frivolous, at least that’s what I tell myself. And then I sit around on balconies staring off into nothing.

But some people just go around doing things that they want to do. They go to work and they work and then they come home and just do things. But I can’t even think of things that I want to do when I really think about it. Like Molly asked me yesterday, what do you want to do? And I tried to think of an honest answer because most of the time I would never assert myself about some shit like that because I just go along with whatever she wants to do and I couldn’t think of an answer. Besides have sex. Sex and eating, that’s all I do. I like drinking, too, but I like that less and less as it hurts more the next day or the night of, even, when I drink just enough to feel good but not enough to knock me out. I know there are things I want to do, I think, I never thought it was just going somewhere and eating, but maybe it is.

I mean sure I want to go hang out with the girl I was formerly obsessed with, but I don’t even know what I want to do with her, just go dancing I guess or sit on a bed talking, basically anything that seems like it’s leading to sex. Or eating.

But I also like just sitting and talking with people. I like talking with people, especially the girl I was formerly obsessed with. I like playing basketball, too, and writing down dumb shit. I like learning shit, I think I do. Sometimes I even like cleaning, but I don’t know if it’s just because I feel like if I’m cleaning, I’m safe from my inner critic, the one that tells me whatever I’m doing isn’t right, that it would be better if I did something else entirely. And then I do that and it’s the same thing. It’s always something I can’t even do, really, or won’t do, because I’m scared. I should just go around doing things I’m scared of, I guess, is the lesson. I don’t know.

Fuck it, I think I’ll go to sleep.

Other Minds, Philosophy, Politics , , , , , , 3 Comments

Why I Didn’t Tell You About Jordan Peterson

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First of all I’ll tell you something I’ve been hiding from you for really no reason other than the fact that I hate myself, I suppose. The videos that I watched that set me on this new path of honesty were lectures by Jordan Peterson. I have been listening to hours and hours of Jordan Peterson lectures. This is kind of embarassing because it seems like I always find some new guru and buy into everything they say. Eventually I forget about them. I don’t think I’m unique in this way, but I like to think of myself as unique, and it kills me to think that everything I say comes from somewhere else.

It’s also annoying because Peterson is very of the moment right now, especially for 30 year old white males who have wasted their lives. If you read through the comments on his lectures you’ll see them. We’re like a club. Nothing makes you feel more mass produced. It’s like Carl Jung said, “People don’t have ideas, ideas have people.” Where do you think I got that quote? One of Peterson’s podcasts.

Yeah so here I am thinking I have these ideas, but I’m just a groupie. Even the ideas I had before I watched his lectures were held by what appears to be hundreds of thousands of people.

Also, there was an article about how Peterson became a kind of hero to the new right when he took a stand against what they call “social justice warriors”, and I can’t be seen endorsing some kind of right wing asshole after the stands I’ve taken here, namely that heterosexual white males are ruining the world.

So what does it mean? I don’t know. I don’t give a fuck, apparently. I’m drinking coffee on the balcony when I should be doing things and stuff like that. Not giving a fuck is easy to do.

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The Old Days Were Terrible Days

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Today it’s going to be hot in New York. It’s going to be almost 90 degrees Farenheit. Underneath my balcony right now, kids are walking. They’re holding long cables connected to adults. They just stopped when someone said, “About face!” Then they all turned around like little soldiers. Now they are all walking back under the balcony, back to the school or daycare or whatever.

I bought some patio furniture yesterday. Now I set up my iPad on my new seven dollar plastic made in America stool and I’ve got my bluetooth keyboard on my lap and I’ve got my coffee and Morgan is asleep inside and it’s just me out here. My wife, we’ll call her Molly from now on, is at work. She had to go early because she’s the boss this month. It’s turning her into a little neutron star of stress. I work today at 3. It’s 10 AM now. I don’t have shit to do. I have a lot of things to do, but since I know I won’t do them, I’ll just pretend I don’t have shit to do.

To be honest I’m scared to be honest. Some days it seems very simple. Some days it seems unnecessary. And on days like today it seems difficult and possibly not worth it. It’s hard for me to even be honest with you any more, now that you know me so well. I think about what you’ll think of me now. I think about what I’ll think of me when I’m you, sometime in the future, re-reading old bullshit.

I’ve got a lot I want to talk about, but I’d like it to seem well-written. Self-censorship is good when you’re writing for an audience. Only an egomaniac would go on about whatever he wanted to for three thousand words and then hit publish. Well, if I’m a fucking egomaniac, I’d better just shut the fuck up about it. I don’t even know if egomaniac is a word. I usually prefer the term narcissist. I don’t really know how the two are different, but narcissist sounds more classy.

I know what I could do, to make this easier for you and pretty much, though not exactly, the same for me. I could break this up into pieces and schedule them to be posted in the future. Since I feel like writing an epic rant about whatever the fuck, I might as well set myself up for the next few days and then I won’t have to actually write things on days that I don’t want to write things. Man I am good at doing exactly what I want.

Journal, True Stories , , 1 Comment

No Hope for the Maldives

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I had a beer and allergies today on the balcony. They were cutting down a tree across the street. They couldn’t do it all at once, they had to tie ropes around the limbs. They fed the pieces into a machine that ground them to dust. The dust settled on cars nearby and a man sprayed the cars with a gas powered leaf blower. The clouds settled in, and I fell asleep to piano music punctuated by the din. 

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Tired

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I am really tired of posting every day. Who can do this? On the surface it seems simple. Just fucking write something. I love writing so it should be easy. But some days just seem meant to pass without writing anything. Or at the very least not writing something for other people. Plus my wife doesn’t know about it so I can’t be like oh I have to go write my blog for a minute on our days off. Right now she’s showing me pictures of sea monsters and I’m pretending to be doing nothing. 

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Inhibitor

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I laid down in bed and started to write the post that I don’t want to write. I don’t want to write this post, not because it’s going to be different than other posts in some disturbing way, but rather because it’s going to be very quotidian and bland. So I started to write this post that I have been putting off writing all day, which I am only going to write because I said that I would post every day for the rest of this year and I never do the things that I say I’ll do. I never do the things that I don’t want to do. So now I’m writing the post I didn’t want to write and I realize that I can’t even type it properly on my phone because I’ve wrapped my thumb in a band aid.

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Some Words I Typed

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What am I even fucking doing today? I don’t know, y’all. I been trying to make this shit more readable, but I don’t even give a fuck right now. I’m sitting in bed with cat hair all over me. I got this hoodie from American Giant or something like that.

Morgan left the house to go out and play basketball. I didn’t see it coming but I’m ready for this dude to be out of my house. I remember when I lived with my other brother, and that got bad enough I think and he had his own room. This dude is just living in the living room. Playing the newest Kid Cudi album while we’re looking for a place for him to live. Took up all morning again. Then I’m washing mad dishes. I don’t even give a fuck about washing dishes these days. I’m all about it. Not like the old days. But damn. Life is off kilter.

It doesn’t even really matter, I guess.

I’m trying to help him pay all his bills and shit on time. Looks like I’m going to have to figure out which bills can wait after all. He can’t make money fast enough. Shit I’m sleepy, too. I’m bout to take a nap, fuck it. Least I can go to work refreshed.

“It’s so chill,” said the girl. But it’s different now.

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Invalid

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Yesterday I got so tired. We walked around Central Park and the upper east side. We saw a fire up there. Then we were completely fucked by the subway. Then we tried to negotiate the streets in a Lyft. That was even worse. We had to run a mile to the next station to make sure he got to his second day of work on time. We pretended like nothing happened. 

I drank a glass of white wine and felt woozy and phlegm collected in my throat. I slept ten hours and now I don’t want to get out of bed. We have a lot of work to do, but I’m worried I’m neglecting other work I have to do. It’s like I’m back where I was. In some ways. Maybe once I get out of this bed I’ll be alright.