Dear Journal

Felt it again today.

It’s been longer than usual since I felt it. I’ve always held it synonymous with something being wholly disastrously, wrong with the universe.

… or something subtly, quietly wrong with me.

There are things wrong with me. Lots of things. Lots of things get overlooked by lots of people but given the right people every subtle and major flaw is drawn out.

Every time I meet one of those people… you could break me in half with a breath.

And I go a little crazy. (ier)

The last time this happened I wrote this post called “The Island.” The article concerning the ironic obsession of a guy perpetually drenched in social conflict with being alone and detached from the people around him. Not constantly, but now and then. Every so often, here and there…

So lets go ahead and expose some of these flaws.

1. Social Bulimia.

I like it. I honestly, genuinely, enjoy doing this. … I feel like I’m writing a blog post again. My journals sound different than this. My journals are noisier than this. “… I wish she wouldn’t have flagged me down. I wish she wouldn’t have stopped me. I wish she hadn’t called me that over and over again.” … things like that. Only in capital letters and followed by a minimum of three exclamation points.

I started listening to people yammer on and on about this amazingly relative concept I normally footnote as: “The Suckiness of Your Life Right Now for Whatever Reason.” I started hearing these stories a long time ago and I listened, respectfully, patiently, quietly. People tell me all kinds of ridiculous petty things that are tearing at their world right now. People always have. I figured it was healthy to get it out of the system now and then. It’s rarely major huge things, it’s always just a lot of little things. The lot of little things build up and you’ve got to take a step outside, count to ten, feel better, and then scream at the top of your lungs till nothing has changed except your face is flushed and your lungs are sore and your eyes are streaming tears and you’re so empty because everything you had inside of you that sucked… made noise.

Not left… but made noise. You are validated when your problems make noise. And you feel saved (not are saved but feel saved) when another dude hears about it.

That dude, for a lot of people, is me.

Stuff builds up, gotta get it out, stuff builds up, gotta get it out. Okay, just blew a paragraph explaining a universally, muliculturally, trans-societally recognized concept.

Woolah.

<<<I start doing this when I’ve run into one of those people. Those flawcatcher people. I start watching myself, overexplaining myself, analyzing and apologizing for both of the former. I’m talking to them. The whole rest of the day is about them. Anything and everything I say is directed towards them. I can’t feel better until I’ve confused them… and in twenty years I’ve only done that once. I’ve tried many times and somehow they always see through everything with absolutely stupid levels of clarity and end up getting really mad at me.

One time that happened and I pretended that they weren’t mad at me and that was the one time I confused them. That singular thing I think intrigued them enough that enough thought was spent on what I was doing that they had to ask me what in God’s holy name was I doing because they couldn’t figure it out.

And I was like… “Yay! We understand each other!” … but only in my head because getting them confused enough that we were sort of on the same page was an Everestial landmark and I didn’t want to ruin it by making them mad again. (madder) >>>

People make noise with the hell in their heads and they feel better when someone turns and watches the thunder.

Build it up, let it out.

I do not do this. I never have. I do not expel myself and my mind into the faces of people around me nor to a one or two good friends with listening ears and open hearts ready to relate and to lend their shoulders for whatever sorrows I might divulge nope nope. I think I might have, but only once. And even that time was bizarrely internal. Happened to fast guess. My dad and I… down in my bedroom. I started punching myself in the face over and over and over while yelling at the top of my lungs. … normally though no one sees it… Or hears it. Normally I don’t even talk about it.

For one, I can’t get a word in edgewise. For two, I haven’t got that one or two friends. I’ve got someone really close to that I think… but every time I think what it would be like it doesn’t make any human sense and I dodge it. Third, I’m socially bulimic.

I bottle up. I cap it tight, and then… I sit on it. I take everything I have and I flush it, sometimes for just one day, sometimes it’s a week, sometimes more. I don’t expel all the grit and flosh, and crap. That nausea-watery feeling milking around in your innards… I don’t release just anywhere. I eat it alive. I don’t send it out, I revel in it. I lie in it and swallow it and love it.

I go crazy. Everything good becomes bad, everything bad becomes good.

Powerful, stomach-wrenching, skin-crawling, earsplitting good. My mind turns upside down until everything that is built up becomes lovely and I consume it as though I’d enjoy a summer day at the beach. … better even. When I am here, in this state… I am consumed with some of the most incredible twisted ecstasies I’ve ever felt. Not because the emotions are good. Any other time, washing together en masse as they are now, they’d feel murderous.

In this state I love them because they’re strong. Intense, powerful emotions, raw and unmerciful. Emotion is that clever little pixie dust that makes you feel alive, that proves you existence, and in that way… validates you.

You get it out your way, I do it my way. You find someone to relate and pour out your feelings. I remove myself from anyone who can relate, anything that I would normally protect… because I’ll break things if they’re pretty enough. I’ll tear them apart when I’m like that. I burn them in sweet, redemptive insanity.

That’s the binge. The purge is the ride down and everything comes flooding out and all the horrors are regurgitated as though I’d swallowed up every penciled sheet of my darkest most horrific journals and then vomited up a massive pile of crumpled up but perfectly pure white unmarked sheets ready for writing again.

My head normally itches at this point. That’s a part I’ve always wondered about.

1. Liar’s Sneeze
   

I’ve actually told one person about this. I can lie. I can lie really… really well. Like… mindblowingly well. (to the right person. There is a modifier involved.) This person is only slightly insecure and is at least remotely open to the possibility of the supernatural. That’s it. That’s everything I need in your mind to tear it wide open, insert whatever I want, and make it an inalterable, uninfusable anchor in your reality. And it’s normally pretty darned exciting too. It doesn’t even have to be anything at all to do with your insecurity or the supernatural. It rarely ever is. I’ve convinced a load of people just for fun that there’s no such thing as color on the moon, educated people.

All kinds of things…

Anyway. The point is… that I’ve got a meter inside of me that tells me when you are irreparably convinced of something I’ve said. When I’ve got you in a place that everything in the world could rush in and tell you that what you just learned from me was wrong and your mind wouldn’t budge for it: I sneeze. I get an insatiable tickle in my nose and I sneeze.

Couldn’t tell you when I noticed this the first time. It only happens when I pull off the most incredible, perfect lies. Flawless things. It’s got something to do with unity and… shifting something and effecting something, and… conception or something. I don’t know, there’s an emotion that comes with it that’s difficult to describe. But when I feel it it’s as though I may as well have made reality my truth and my truth is made reality. That’s the unity part.

And I sneeze.

It honestly doesn’t really even have to be a lie. It just happens when I make more logical sense than reality does. And that happens now and then.

1. Escalation of Perception
   

I propel emotional opinions. Particularly about myself. I take what you think of me. I produce evidence to back you up. This is the least intentional of the three so far, and this is the one that gets me so frustrated with all of those
people.

I get a little acid twinge when someone develops an opinion about me. And it chemicalizes inside of me and multiplies and multiplies like a bunch of rabbits until it becomes an adapted component of my character. Accident.

You’ll see me do something that you might take the wrong way and I’ll try at first to explain it to you and you’ll still think it, still… and still… good or bad thing, whatever it is thing you’ve decided about my character- you being around me involuntarily warps me into a manifestation of that little acid twinge. As soon as you leave. It’s gone.

This is how I can seem an absolute angel to some and a stumbling knockoffish jerk to others. I was blessed to see a person from the former perspective and another from the latter run into each other. Each walked away confused and concluded that the other was completely insane.

Involuntary.

\\ So… that’s the list. There are more no doubt that I could talk about that would tickle you all greatly but we’re four pages in and… etcetera.

The tattoo is fake by the way. Photoshop. I did it myself. Thought it’d get a laugh. Got a lot of panicked people instead. Sorry.

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