Full of self indulgence and swearing. Pathetic, actually.

I have come to the conclusion that nobody reads this anymore. Thank God! Thank you God! (I am learning to follow instructions, especially my own.)

The strains of Willie Nelson and friends singing "Goodnight Irene" is making me wistful. It is an interesting state to be mad and wistful at the same time. Why am I mad? I haven't got a fucking clue. Except maybe the broken iPod. It tried to leap to it's death off of the Burrard Street bridge the other night, just at the moment it was being of tremendous solace to me, of course, and instead of making it off the bridge and into the water it just crashed to the sidewalk and now it's maimed. I think I heard it say, "I'm hurt real bad".

I seem to feel mad in combination with pretty much any other emotion I'm having at any given time. I wonder if this is just what I'm like. This whole unmedicated thing, it's weird. I don't want to go back, but I'm definitely alarming myself with all the damn feeling of things.

I'm mad that television sucks and is irritating when you can hear it from another room.

I'm mad that I'm almost 35 and have...er...nothing but a fat ass to show for it.

I'm mad that I just wrote that. What a stupid thing to write!

I'm mad that I have to shed so much to move forward with one thing. The sound of closing doors all around me.

I'm mad that I repeat myself on this stupid blog and don't even know it. I mean, I must.

I'm mad that I'm not funnier than I am.

I'm mad that it's raining.

I'm mad that the only person I've ever been sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life with is unavailable to me in that capacity.

I'm mad that I could make a list about what I'm mad about for hours.

I'm mad that I probably have to take the greyhound this week. I, as you probably know, am NOT a fan of the greyhound bus. And now that I am no longer dulled by chemical bliss it's even worse.

I'm mad that I'm so much more neurotic than I thought I was.

I'm mad that my neuroses and my anger aren't interesting. (Why are you still reading? Wait. That assumes that someone is reading, when, in fact, we earlier ascertained that no one reads this stupid thing anymore.)

Fuck. What am I doing.

I just needed to write something because I'm totally going mental. All this time on my hands to spend alone and write comedy, it seemed like a good idea, but I'm turning into a total freakshow. It's possible that communal living is not such a good idea for me. People touch your things, and dogs and children make things sticky and hairy. It's cheap, you say, so suck it up. I fucking KNOW why I'm doing it, but that doesn't mean it's easy for me. So fuck off.

Huh. Oddly, it feels very very good to say that. *spoiler alert* I'm going to say it again.


Wait, I think now I need to add to it.

First shut the fuck up, then fuck right off, and on your way to fucking off take out the fucking garbage and don't touch any of my fucking stuff on the way, fucking fucksack fuckery fuckfuckfuckfuck.


By the way, if you are still here, this is likely going to go on for at least a few more paragraphs.

It's possible that I'm mad all the time because I hardly eat anything and my blood sugar is low low low. And if I hardly eat anything, you ask, (fuck you, I say), why am I still such a fat fucking slob? I DON'T KNOW. I ride my bike, I walk everywhere I go, I fuck...nothing. Still sitting on an ass as wide as two asses. (Now is likely not a good time to critcize my poor simile making skills.)

Hm. I just took a call from my good friend Todd Allen. That guy has a way of making it impossible not to look at things with a bit of a rosy spin. What a guy. He made me laugh and suggested that everyone is neurotic. I asked if he thought that when everyone comes home and finds that something of theirs has been moved, like, an inch, do they immediately move it back in a slamming it down kind of way and feel bile rising in their throat and a desire to punch the wall?

The inside of my head is a minefield.

Oddly, I had a really sweet day. It has come to a point where I have to actually be in the middle of something enjoyable to be enjoying anything. Like, as soon as the enjoyable thing is over I'm let loose into the wilderness of my brain again.

I'm really thinking it has a lot to do with blood sugar.

I can't wait until I can always afford groceries. I don't think a constant diet of toast and mr. noodles ever did anyone any good.

Where is my afterglow?! I am being cheated out of wallowing in the joy of moments gone by. Either that means I am spending too much time worrying about the future, or I am solidly in the present. Which is supposed to be a good thing.

What defines a crazy person, I guess, is my question. If I can boil down all my thinking into one sentence. That's what I wanna know. Naturally, because I'd like to detect my own levels of craziness. Boy, narcissism, anyone?

I'll tell you one thing, I am uncovering more of my true nature each and every day, and my true nature is a rank, self serving bitch. And, interestingly, my true nature allows me to not care if I'm a rank, self serving bitch. I just want what I want. So get outta my way, lady on the skytrain who smelled like rotting fruit.

Please, please, God, let me find a way to the Okanagan that doesn't involve me, a bus, and OTHER PEOPLE!! Other people. Ich. They make me hold my nose and not want to touch anything. I can tell I'm going to become a bubble person. I don't mind dirt created in my own environment, or clean dirt, like in the country, but I don't like city dirt, and I really don't like germy, sticky, slimy, stinky, crusty dirt. If my face doesn't stop making the expression it is currently making I am going to become an old sourpuss before my very eyes.

My head hurts. I'm going to make some mr. noodles and toast. Oh, what a meal!


Unrelated but possible existentially related piece of information to follow - Someone very, very special to me gave me a gift yesterday. A wooden Buddha statue. Thin Buddha, not fat Buddha. Anyway, he gave it to me because he has seen me not at my best lately and thought it might help to keep me calm. I am moved each and every time I look at it. Even if I have just had a swearing jag, I look at it and see the love it has been infused with, and I am calmed for a moment. Which, I believe, was the point. It's very soothing to have a reminder that one is loved. It is one of the most thoughtful gifts anyone has ever given me. I am quite grateful, actually, and am thinking right now that perhaps I should spend more time with Buddha and less with iBook. Now there's a thought.

As ever, thanks for listening.


Anonymous said...

I still read this. I hate my space.


Anonymous said...

Can't you get some kind of a free counter or something. Then at least you would know how many people are not reading this. I have it in my RSS reader, personally, so I read it all.

my space still sucks.


Infidelia said...

thanks, ruben. i experimentally sent a text message to your home number because someone once told me that if you do that a robot voice will deliver the message to your voicemail, or say it when you answer the phone. i hope it's true! i love robot voices. also, i don't know how to do anything like make a counter or anything on the interweb. i'm the dummy they write those books for. plus, i think i'd get obsessive and weird if i had a counter. myspace does suck. but people keep track of my shows there. i'm getting a website soon. expensive, but better than myspace. we need to have beer soon.

cradman said...

Darling, everyone is crazy and angry and sad. Everyone always. All there is, is a striving for compassion, for others, and for yourself.



murray said...

I visit a handful of pages on a regular basis. This happens to be one of them. Maybe I should comment more.

Anyway, there's something nice about a blog written as if no one's reading it. Less self-conscious I guess.

I'm sorry to hear about your iPod. That part hit home with me. Also, I think "fucksack" was my favourite word in your post.

Thanks for being honest.

Infidelia said...

I'll tell you this much, it doesn't feel good to NOT be honest. It doesn't feel good at all.

Nobody has to comment more, or anything. I kind of like thinking that maybe I'm dumping everything in my brain into an interweb vaccum.

And I just assumed no one was reading because it had become such a boring blog to my own self, I couldn't really see how anyone else could stomach it. But, I'm back with this entry, back in a big way.

Riiiight after I sleep.


Zen Render said...

Hello my Happy Shark.

I'm another of those RSS reader types, using Sage under Firefox. So you've got people, even if they don't officially "visit."

Am going to have to miss your show tonight at YukYuks, due to (hopefully recording the latest podcast), but I know... in my heart... that you are funny. The truth is what it is whether I'm there or not.

MySpace Am Teh SuX0r3z. I'll use it when I'm 13 again.

As for the Fucky McFuckerson post, I actually quite enjoyed it, and think it's good to lose your shit once in a while, even if it's for long periods of time.

And now, this:

I’ve always liked the line from one of the incarnations of Black Adder:

“I have no fear. I stuff icecubes down the SHIRT of fear.”

I think what you really need is one of those dancehall reggae guys to ramp you up before you head out for the day. He can say a whole bunch of really amazing shit that doesn’t make any sense (but sounds cool anyway) and then ends with “HEAR DISS!” right before you go out and do your thing.

Oh, and tell your fear it’s surrounded. If/when the shit starts flying, and fear looks like it’s gonna maybe win at the end of the movie *anyway*, I’ll be the TomWaits/KrisKristopherson character: holding a detonator in my teeth while tossing you two freshly loaded ’45s (silvered, of course, to go with your adamantium nails, don’t you know), and grinning like a damn fool.

I also suggest watching Trinity’s opening of the Matrix over and over and over again…

Just ’cause “FUCK YEAH!”

your favorite idiot said...

i'm mad as well...i'm mad that...actually it would take so long to get it all out and this isn't my blog...
cheer up little camper. maybe you just need a long hard hug.