Wednesday, 18 November 2015

Brigitte Bardot, London, 1966 1


Well, I’m 31 not 25, those 6 years increase the entire ‘what am I doing with my life’ fear exponentially. A broader sense of purpose would make me feel like I’m actually doing things for myself, rather than going through the motions. Right now what do I do? I work a job I don’t particularly like that gives me no satisfaction and basically just enables me to live alone, have a car, and some sort of financial security, which fulfils some basic needs. No doubt many people have it worse than I do, I know several people who can’t find any work at all and would kill for my job, however uneventful it may be. But this only addresses the bottom of the pyramid (via Maslow’s hierarchy of needs). I know you think that you are not your job, but when you spend eight hours a day doing it, it is a reflection of you, and it becomes a big part of your life. A pig can live in a stable, and while it doesn't make him a horse, he's less of a pig because of it. The worst part is, though, that I don’t really know what I could be doing that would give me a sense of satisfaction, self-respect, quench the creative thirst, give me a challenge, and not make me feel like I am wasting my over privileged life. The lack of direction is the root of my fear. Yes, very generic, very relatable, very first world.

Why am I even telling you this? You say you don’t answer questions, but you have no qualms asking, and for some reason I answer you. You want a sexier insecurity? I’m insecure about the way I look. I look like I’m in my early 20s, which makes it very difficult to find any women my age interested in me. I’m sure I could bang an entire gaggle worth of 20 year olds, but that isn’t what I want. Because of this I’m incredibly lonely; which is pretty fucking weird because I am also slightly introverted. (Can someone be slightly introverted? Are theredegrees of introversion, like there are degrees of coincidences?) I like being alone, but I also hate it. Woe is me, I know. I don’t do the club scene, and I’m not into picking up women at a bar, so I’m just alone. It’s been 6 years since my last date. The problem then compounds onto itself, I feel lonelier as time goes by, and more helpless, and as I get older I feel even more pathetic about it. Maybe I should just go out with that 19 year old cashier at Longo’s that asks me every week, without fail, what I’m doing on the weekend. Then again, am I not doing that shit because I think it’s ‘wrong’, or that we wouldn’t get along, or am I just embarrassed of how awkward it would be when I tell her I’m 31, not 22 or 23 which she probably thinks I am. Funny how often morality is just a facade. I also wasn’t insecure about my height until I tried online dating, so that’s a fresh new addition.  I never had a problem with that before, and I never cared if the girl was taller than I am, but apparently it’s a big deal, so I got that going for me, which is nice. At least I’m beautiful. As I wrote that, some poor fck in Syria is getting tortured, several women in eastern Europe have been kidnapped and forced into sex work, a few children starved to death, and I’m here writing about how I can’t find a girl who wants to lay in bed all night with me and talk and fck and laugh. Perspective.

What do you mean by love? Love has a million faces, which one are you looking at? “The mind of the witness is more important than the mind of the creator, or some shit like that.....” cute, but it isn’t the same when it’s two sides of the same coin. Do you really think you can just will yourself to love you and go on living as the ‘witness’ in this scenario? The mental gymnastics needed to pull that off… it wouldn’t last. Can you really feel good about yourself, or your life, when you’re just passively accepting your circumstances like that? Are you living, laughing, loving D? What would Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn have to say about this?? I must come off as such a bitter asshole.

p.s. I made lobster and green onion wontons tonight, picture attached. 8/10 effort, 7/10 taste, and a burnt pinkie finger


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