I woke up at 420 this morning. Upsetting, I know and, in my case, an extreme rarity. But for some odd reason it's midnight and I'm still awake... I haven't spent this many hours conscience since my last paper was due.
I hate being sleepless. I'm sure for others it is just as frustrating. Everyone hates when their desired goal eludes them but my is more hateful due to it inevitable progression. If I don't sleep I will just lay, for hours, listening to the clock tick and thinking about how terrible I am. I will relieve every dark moment, most of which healthy people would have forgotten by now and by the end of the first hour I will be completely sure I'm the worst person alive.
Tonight I find that my feelings are far darker than usual... but some of the worst thoughts I've had in a while (obviously they shall not be outlined here) have led me, oddly back to research. Weirdly phrased I know, I shall explain. I want to begin a study, which shall be difficult considering I have no current academic affiliation, investigating the suicidal thoughts of the 'normal' population. Mainly, because I understand everyone things about it but wonder if frequency over time and not just planning should be a warning sign. Also, I wonder how deeply investigated the common return of 'well, yeah, everybody thinks about it' has been. Furthermore, I love it when the 'diagnosed' get to be the control group, it should happen more often in psychological research. I miss school...
Sunday 28 November 2010
Passionless Skins
I am a champion at trying on different skins. It’s because I have no soul purpose, which is my soul heartbreak. I hate fake people because deep inside I am fake. I’m not an artist and I never will be. I’m not a writer and again, I never will be. I’m not a lot of things but when I see someone or surround myself with people who have a ambitious focus on their dream, I try it on for size. To be honest its not that I am in love with their dream, although I am genuinely interested and it will hold my focus for more than a little while. It’s their surety. I dream about being that sure about something, anything. I really wouldn’t care if I discovered my life goal was competitive basket weaving, at least I would be sure. I would know that basket weaving was what I was meant to do. The perfect fit, my soul purpose. I have no idea of my passion and it makes me a great big faker. And as much as I hate myself, I shall continue to be a poser from each calling to the next, a pointless, directionless, and wholly unsure being. But I suppose there are worse things then being a passionless poser… at least I’m not a mass murdering fuckhead.
Tuesday 9 November 2010
Airborne Ramblings
I find airplanes extremely upsetting. It's not the actual plane no do I have a fear of flying, I don't think the plane is going to fall out of the sky and it is actually, in my mind, quite stupid to worry, I have to fly and I'm already in the air... silly to worry about something that you've lost all control over just by boarding a hunk of flying metal.
As a side note I do find it quite humorous when people worry like that. It makes me want to ask them questions about wing safety and fuel levels. If you look that worried you're just asking for my ridicule. I feel sure this is evil and I know it makes me a bitch but since that isn't exactly a new discovery and you can't really do anything about it, move on. And grow some balls. Admit it. You would love to make fun of me for my worst fear. It's snakes by the way, don't want you to show up for this battle unprepared. I won't be and your quick defeat would be boring and an obvious waste of my time.
Back to how upsetting it is to be trapped in a airborne metal coffin for hours on end with stale air, bad food, smelly bathrooms and enough disease to kill a five year old... they have a steady diet of dirt by the way. That is why planes upset me, not the five year olds with a dirt diet, although children have no business being on a plane, unless heavily drugged. No, planes upset me because I'm trapped and surround by filth. Three dollar prostitutes are cleaner than the air on a plane. Think about that when you make that next sexual expenditure, 3 or 100 ($) take the deal, you most likely wouldn't give as much thought about your health before you shelled out 800 ($) for that trip to Maui.
Did I mention that cramped spaces have the tendency to make me angry and combative? 40 minutes left in this flying trash can o' joy.
The physical:
An Airborne Virgin, in name not innocence
The desired:
Escape
The feeling in the forefront:
Hostile Claustrophobia
The smothering sense:
Tactile- The oppressive heavy breath of my fellow caged
In absence of misplaced action:
Escape, I can only think of my exit from my current surroundings
If I were listening closely:
The deep rumble of the heavens passing by
As a side note I do find it quite humorous when people worry like that. It makes me want to ask them questions about wing safety and fuel levels. If you look that worried you're just asking for my ridicule. I feel sure this is evil and I know it makes me a bitch but since that isn't exactly a new discovery and you can't really do anything about it, move on. And grow some balls. Admit it. You would love to make fun of me for my worst fear. It's snakes by the way, don't want you to show up for this battle unprepared. I won't be and your quick defeat would be boring and an obvious waste of my time.
Back to how upsetting it is to be trapped in a airborne metal coffin for hours on end with stale air, bad food, smelly bathrooms and enough disease to kill a five year old... they have a steady diet of dirt by the way. That is why planes upset me, not the five year olds with a dirt diet, although children have no business being on a plane, unless heavily drugged. No, planes upset me because I'm trapped and surround by filth. Three dollar prostitutes are cleaner than the air on a plane. Think about that when you make that next sexual expenditure, 3 or 100 ($) take the deal, you most likely wouldn't give as much thought about your health before you shelled out 800 ($) for that trip to Maui.
Did I mention that cramped spaces have the tendency to make me angry and combative? 40 minutes left in this flying trash can o' joy.
The physical:
An Airborne Virgin, in name not innocence
The desired:
Escape
The feeling in the forefront:
Hostile Claustrophobia
The smothering sense:
Tactile- The oppressive heavy breath of my fellow caged
In absence of misplaced action:
Escape, I can only think of my exit from my current surroundings
If I were listening closely:
The deep rumble of the heavens passing by
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