I think distraction and procrastination might be synonyms.

(The following having been written and published in less than 45 minutes because I forced myself to do it instead of watching YouTube videos.)

Sometimes I wonder why I bother keeping a blog when I never fucking post anything on it.  I keep telling myself that I’ll work my way up to one post per week, like it’s so simple and easy and a mere matter of just telling myself that I just gotta do it.  It’s frankly infuriating that I’m not actually wrong and YES, just telling yourself to sit down and write something is actually the only way anything ever gets written, because there really is no easy way to do the things you want to do besides just doing them.  It’s rather quite hard to do the things you want to do.  I feel like that sounds utterly preposterous and a lot of people who read this will probably say “Yes, this assertion is absolute nonsense as I have always been exceptionally good at doing all of the things that I desire to do which is why I’m so famous and confident and everybody loves me.  You all love me, don’t you?  PLEASE SAY YOU LOVE ME.”  I mean, they probably don’t say that, but maybe they think it?  I can’t read minds but sometimes I’m very petty and I like to think that everybody is as insecure as I am wherever their emotion engines plunk away.  I hear from reliable sources that most people are actually quite insecure, but since I can’t actually read people I just have to infer from subtext and HOLY SHIT is that an ever-loving nightmare.  But, horrible digressions aside, the only way that words can happen is if a human being (or other sentient lifeform that communicates in written dialogue) makes them happen.  I’ve personally got that human being/sentience bit covered, but the issue is that WORDS ARE HARD.

(I apologize profusely for wanton abuse of italics, bolding, and ALL CAPS.  I do not, however, intend to quit using them as a means of communicating emphasis and intonation.  It’s what works for me.)

I dunno.  Words are hard.  Coming up with stuff to say is like attempting to craft a halfway-decent metaphor that doesn’t make you hate yourself and delete the entire draft.  Like, I haven’t the foggiest idea where any of what I’m writing out right now is actually coming from, but I’m in the vicinity of 43% certainty that it’s coming from in my brain somewhere.  Possibly it’s just a washing out of accumulated thoughts and frustrations that build up over the weeks?  Weeks spent staring at the five different Word documents that have all taken up space on one’s desktop, each an increasingly precipitous and half-baked idea for something—literally anything—to post on my blog so I can at least meet the barest essential requirements for being okay with myself and where I’m at in life and confident that somehow I’m on the a path that will lead me to where I want to be.  I don’t want to work as a host for the rest of my life.  I don’t want to be sitting in an office until I’m fifty and can collect some kind of pension (assuming society hasn’t collapsed by then).  There are actual things I want to do with my life.  Why the fuck is this blog going to help me?  What am I even doing with my life?

Why did my parents tell me that I could be anything when I grew up?  They should have told me that I could be anything when I grew up, as long as “anything” actually means “a white, heterosexual male who inherits our business from us”.  I suppose the dreams of being an astronaut or an archaeologist and cultivated for the express purpose of crushing them so that your child will fucking settle for whatever pays bills and keeps them alive.  What a fucking way to live.

I wonder what my parents would’ve said if I’d told them “I wanna be a girl when I grow up!”  I never said that, of course.  I think I might’ve been sent to some kind of horrible summer camp for boys before I was legally old enough to refuse.

I dunno why I’m moving in the directions I am with this post.  I suppose I’m just stressed and put out from not giving this site as much love as I want to.  I’m so frustrated that everything I post on here ends up being so execrably dour and painful to read.  The entire endeavor’s just become some kind of stress ball for days like today.  And, well, maybe that’s okay, but this is just a temporary alleviation.  It doesn’t address the fact that I get so distracted all the time.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m not actually just distracting myself deliberately so I don’t have to face the fact that I can’t really write anything unless my heart is in it.  I can’t do anything unless I care, and I can’t just will myself to care about shit.  Life is too short and complicated and fucked up to run around willy-nilly caring about everything you see.

Except…  I do run around willy-nilly, caring about everything I see.  I love everything.  I want to see everything, everyone.  I want to look at the world and tell the world how beautiful it is, because I see beautiful things every day that I wish so fervently I could stop and watch and appreciate.  And when I can’t, I dissociate.  And somehow, when all this shit piles up and I try to process my feelings, when I should be writing and talking and expressing myself, I conveniently find ways to medicate the pain.  I find distractions.

I want that shit to stop.  Everybody needs a break now and then, but there’s only so much you break before you begin to atrophy.

I’m all out of time.  Gotta go to work soon.  Next time (not sure if next week or maybe later) I’m gonna do an ultra-long post on Night in the Woods, because Alec Holowka and his friends now exactly how to press my buttons and I have lots of feelings to get out.  Feelings are why I made this blog in the first place, right?  Right?


Gregg knows the answers to all mysteries.  He is one with the universe.  All hail the Lord of the Snack Falcons.

…Goddamnit, I am such garbage.

Bye for now.


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