smothered hope

It's so easy to lose your patience with the blog thing. I know I can't do it. I mean, I can do it, but I'm not like the hardened, weaned-on Wired, been-Boing-Boinged-five-times bloggers; I write about myself, and I tend to do it in abstract, often highly-emotional terms. In other words, I'm an oldschool, bred-on-angst, pre-MySpace drama queen.

Tonight I've been looking at other people's blogs (people I don't know personally, or whose blogs I have not been reading for several years, that is), and I'm marvelling at the way some people feel at ease writing for a mainstream audience. I, on the other hand, get the blogging equivalent of stage fright: Every time I become conciously aware that other people read my journal (because I hate the word "diary," and "blog" implies short blurbs about the day's news, not the details of my breakup with my boyfriend), I suddenly feel as though I have nothing to say, or that anything I'd want to express would be foolish or inappropriate (i.e., the details of my breakup with my boyfriend). I try to be professional, or creative, or tuned in, but really, I'm just playing The Blog Game, like anyone else. I don't want to play The Blog Game. I haven't the patience for The Blog Game.

So I try to write something sincere, and write it as comprehensively as I can, without terms of drama, without letting instinct and gut reaction get the better of me. It's supposed to be theraputic, cathartic, not Daytime Emmy Nomination material. And I do accomplish that, but less and less often these days. Perhaps it's unavoidable, and we all just become too aware of the audience at some point, start living for it, start being our own stereotype. Or maybe it's that digital stage fright getting the better of me again. Who knows.

I do know that being sad and horny at the same time feels like shit. "Oh, I could totally go for some meaningless casual sex right now. As long as I don't have to touch anyone."

I'm not looking forward to calling my mom tomorrow - and you know, I have to; it's Thanksgiving tomorrow. I haven't called my mom in ages, and I ignored a bunch of messages from my dad and my brother last week, so I'm already extra-dead. And of course, I'll have to tell mom about the breakup, and she can make me feel like shit for "losing him" while acting like she's comforting me. Oh boy, have I ever got tons to give thanks for this year!

Yes, the above is a partial cross-post. Sue me, I have several blogs. (They all serve different purposes, but occasionally there are universals.) (Aawww, do you feel left out? Don't. I guarantee it's the same shit, written differently each time. Oh, and all the other ones are on members' sites, so unless you want to pay in order to read my stuff - and I'm flattered if you do - don't bother looking for them. End of overly-drawn out, unnecessarily-explanitory disclaimer.)

I am slacking off from studies this evening. Surprised? I figured you wouldn't be. This is my favourite distraction, of course. I plan to leave soon for home (I am at a café), where I can either collect the forgotten books I need and head to another café, or give up and watch a movie. Alternatively, I could go out trolling for stupid hipster boys who are willing to buy me lots of drinks and shower me with compliments, but I have neither the confidence nor the money to bother with such an endeavour right now. And besides, if I pretend I'm out only to do homework, I can pretend that I'm only having writer's block, and not actually sitting here, engrossed in my own internal drama. (Seriously, I spent over half an hour compiling just the right study playlist, and I have since found a million other things that needed to be done "in preparation" for study instead of just, you know, actually studying. Egads.)

It's a weird state of mind that dominates in situations like mine. Time slows, strange details rise to the greatest importance, little distractions can last for hours. Nothing feels resolved; it is all interconnected, and emotions come in a tangled stream. There is no end or beginning to my thoughts these days, just one long string of conciousness that picks up its thread upon waking each morning, and continuing, undisturbed (because it is nearly impossible to fully engross myself in anything outside my silly self lately) until sleep. I think the clinical term for this mental state is wallowing. But it's not all bad: I'm still perfectly capable of laughter and enjoyment and positivity. The catch is that there is no telling whatsoever when it might morph into sadness and pensiveness and bitchery. I hide it fairly well, for the most part, and I figure that's what counts.

It is a shame I never made it through the door of the titty bar on Friday night, though. Ah, well. Life's not always fair, right?

Anyhow, I'm out for now. Happy Murder a Turkey Day.

back | forth

listening:
reading:
ingesting:
(see entries before 20.11.05)

previously on Smothered Hope:

unreal - 20.05.08
in which our narrator kinda just babbles on a bit - 15.05.08
drank several margaritas last night. they were great. - 04.05.08
spacey - 29.04.08
i will most definitely regret posting this in public - 28.04.08