I felt that a little bit of brutal honesty (mostly directed at yours truly) might help me begin to find an answer to my momentary predicament, and so I will be illuminatingly blunt and shamelessly self-deprecating as I scrape at the insides of my brain with a plastic coffee spoon. I'm not the kind of person who can bite my tongue, bury my head in a textbook, and go through with something that I am not interested in. I'm also not the kind of person who has the guts to mindlessly pursue my passions. I'm that grey-feathered breed. Too weary to turn left and too afraid to turn right so I sit at home on a monday night and spill my confusion out into pixelated squiggles on a tiny laptop. I fear mediocrity more than I fear calculus more than I fear the depths of hell. I cannot make a decision about which spatula to buy at Ikea, god forbid my grilled cheese turns out to be unsuitable for the queen of england so instead I buy a blanket, which (physically and metaphorically) makes me feel safe. Needless to say, I cannot make a decision about anything that has any sort of consequence lasting more than seventeen seconds. I am a condiment in a world of entrees and only desperately and foolishly hope that someone will like red pepper flakes on their pizza (or a mini concert at their social gathering). On those occasions when I feel the need to despair at my shortcomings I spiral into a poetically tragic black hole, graphite-lead on discarded notebook paper. I think too much about food on average and I think too little about it when I am ingesting a heart-stopping lard-burger dripping in ground beef. I delude myself by believing that it is a privilege to be intellectually superior to those pretty powder-puffed girls who pay for their bewitchingly soft voices with daddy's plastic as they struggle with their love-hate relationship with food. And I tell myself it's a privilege to not be a slave to consumerism but I am a slave to pop-commercialism instead because fuck iMacs and long live Lady Gaga. Everything that comes out of my mouth is nothing more than a hologram-like muttering that only gently brushes the surface of reason then bounces back irreverently from the powerful gravity of some ugly truth that escapes me. Whenever I promise myself not to be indulgently verbose, I end up becoming indulgently verbose. So here's a good one: I am retardedly dull in person and fat. I hate people who are self-absorbed only because I don't like myself enough to be absorbed by the self. I am bad at chasing giant orange-striped balls and throwing them into wire circles eight feet above the ground and other so-called "sports". I am embarassingly tactless at the most inopportune moments. I am often delusional enough to feel at the top of the world when I am not reminded somehow that I can't read textbooks or decipher calculus squigglies or talk to real people and that I don't have a real major and that I am up at 3 AM spinning my little web of brutal honesty and fantasizing that people might like me for who I am but then I remember that honest approval is an ever-dangling carrot attached to a string attached to a fishing rod attached to my sneakers.
I would like to attribute any self-contempt above to hearty candidness and lack of sleep rather than actual contempt-worthiness.
