10/23/01
you know, im getting fucking sick of this sex object thing. all right, ive said it a thousand times and ill say it a thousand more, feed my fucking arrogance, stroke my leo ego til i purr, but there's a point where it ceases to bolster my fragile self-image and every fucking random admirer just makes me doubt my actual worth as a person a little more.
how many friendships do i have that aren't driven by or based in some way upon sexual attraction? any? have i ever had any? how many friends do i have with whom i haven't hooked up at all? two, maybe?
yes, its my own fucking fault; certainly my resistance to meaningful relationships leads to a tendency to satisfy these hormonal urges via other paths, like these friends-with-benefits that have pervaded my life since the least notion of sexual activity crossed my little adolescent head. maybe if i want to form friendships on another level i should stop sleeping with my friends. but im scared to lose this smallest semblance of connection that ive got.
im terrified that im never going to find love, that im going to die without knowing what it feels like to care so much about someone else that it hurts. and it frightens me more and more because more and more i believe that this is what's going to happen. i cant imagine finding love, falling in love, being loved like that. maybe i dont have the right emotional dynamic for it; maybe im just not capable of inspiring that kind of feeling in someone else.
and its funny because i used to be plagued to some degree by all these boys "falling for me." and now i doubt their sincerity. not even their sincerity in many cases, because i think sometimes they believed what they were telling me but more because they wanted to believe it than because it was true, they wanted to believe that im what theyre looking for. chip, mike, joey, zach, IV: they would tell me incessantly of these feelings they had for me, and did any of them ever know me in the slightest? all of them would latch onto something in me that they found beautiful - my eyes or my body or my brain or my inattainability - and in their love for whatever that may have been they blot out the rest of me that isn't what they were looking for.
even matt - in some ways especially matt. he loved my intelligence above everything else; he said i was his equal and for that he worshipped me, and probably would have in some way regardless of my body or personality or lifestyle. but he thought that i was beautiful, and probably my youth and innocence was charming and maybe he was drawn to my aloofness, and he became infatuated, he wanted so much to believe that i was what he was looking for and my fear and hesitation hurt him so badly because he had done the impossible and fallen for me and why couldn't i? what puts me so fucking far above him or anyone else that i value my independance and emotional isolation over the chance for a connection, for something meaningful?
so here i am, two decades into some existence and what have i to show for it? what have i created, what have i inspired in myself or anyone else? what do i fucking know of passion?
i keep trying to scratch some desperate meaning into my words, as though the fucking bullshit that i constantly spew is worth anything at all. endless pages of boring, semi-articulate regurgitation of the same core bitches and moans, never accomplishing anything, never coming to any intelligent conclusion, only furthering the cycle of frustrated self-analysis.
you know id give so much right now for one night spent in conversation, over tepid coffee and cigarettes in dennys, or cheap wine and clumsy joints smoked late into the early morning in a bedroom, instead of these endless nights and weekends full of drugs and pounding beats and perpetual sexual tension serving as some poor guise of friendship. when was the last time i had one of those conversations? when youll stay up for hours and hours and your body is begging you for sleep and you wont let it because you dont want to miss this, youre scared that if you let this moment of connection slide through your fingers you'll never find it again.
you know i wonder about my sometimes-inclusion in abby et al.'s circle of intellectual arrogance and elitism. ive got sufficient raw intelligence of course and ive got the slacker/half-apathy-half-desperation/searching-to-find-something-more-than-this mentality but im lacking the inspiration, flat fucking out, i DONT HAVE IT, yet this fucking feeling of suffocation and stagnation drives me to it, drives me to the conviction that its the only way out: these words that i breathe as lifeblood will never be my own. all ive got in me is a sporadic fount of pretty imagery and eloquent phrasing, and that sure as fuck doesn't go to far. i dont think i have the ability to write something non-egocentric, i dont think ill ever write anything to make people stop and think.
im just missing something. and i dont know what, and i dont know how to find it or even how to look. every day i wake up and drag myself out of bed with the knowledge that nothing is going to be accomplished today, all i can hope for to consider the day as productive is to make it to my classes and maybe clean my room or go to CVS and im just fucking fulfilled as can be.
life is leaving me dry.