Limp and ineffectual

I believe the song "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones, while an anthem on the futility of sexual reproduction, is a fully accurate description of my life at the moment. There's no way to talk about any of this without sounding like the wrist-slitting, black-eyeliner-wearing dipshit that characterizes most emos, but I believe I transcend most mortal labels because I am a God among men. Which is ironic, because omnipotent beings don't usually get massively depressed and find zero stimulation in the funnest of activities.

I'm not quite sure what it is about my sudden and acute case of the blues, but I like to think it's a combination of watching other people become successful, happy, and satisfied and being trapped in this house with nowhere to go. While I'm sure I'd be welcomed warmly at the daily smoking sessions that take place around these parts, I'd rather not because I'd simply be trading sitting in a house doing nothing for sitting in a house stoned and doing nothing. Ennui is the true killer of most people. The highlight of my week was going to lunch for half-an-hour. Because it was new. Because it was unexpected. It's small things like that that snap me out of my spell briefly before I sink back into the quagmire like a fat man trying to swim in the deep end of the pool.

And my efforts at alleviating my boredom, mixing it up with my television viewing schedule, reading new literature, exercising myself close to death in a vain attempt to be so muscular that I gain one "Ripped douchebag" card, redeemable for polo shirts and the confidence to abuse women, and watching movies. After watching Conan and loving it, I've found myself sunken into the mire of routine. He's still as hilarious as ever, but marginally less so now that he's been ingratiated into the repetition of my day-to-day activities. Reading new stuff has been fun as well, but like watching late-night television, the excitement of the newness fades away faster than a shot of heroin in the ass. The only area where I would say I've found constant stimulation in is working out, but I can't do that every day for fear of severe injury. I usually work myself to the point of near-death, and that is consistently entertaining. Movie watching has also become marginally less exciting too; I find myself rewatching old favorites for the comfort they afford me instead of experimenting with foreign and new stuff. So I guess that problem is easily remedied; I just need to find the drive to continue it. Even writing, which used to bring me so much joy when I completed a script, now brings me fleeting ecstasy that's gone within half an hour, no matter how good I think it is, or what compliments people give me.

For a while, I've been on a somewhat vain attempt at self-improvement, which I don't think is working as well as I thought. As the above paragraph mentioned, I'm still reluctant to try new things and take a gamble, which is an inherent personality flaw. I should be addressing that moreso than anything else. Confidence issues have remained buried within my deep, rotten core. It does become unlocked, however, when certain substances are introduced into the equation. Plus, irrational and envious thoughts have been a constant and consistent plague on my mental health, contributing to this seemingly inescapable torpor of sadness. I am really trying, but like the wise Linkin Park once said, "IN THE END, IT'S DOESN'T EVEN MATTER!"

Funny how I still have my sense of humor. It's pathetic how I still can't surmount that anthill.

I also acknowledge how pathetic it is that I'm taking a temporary gateway out of this suck-zone to cope with my idiotic problems. I blame nobody but myself, because self-pity is for idiots, something I strive not to be. Really though, all it takes is a nice little adventure for me to snap out of my depressive, angsty trance, and now that the summer has begun in full swing, I look onto the horizon with a healthy dose of cautious optimism that things will swing my way before I leave this hick town for greener and sexier pastures. Maybe I can finally make a movie. Maybe I can finally find the elusive lady. Maybe I can become so utterly brawny that it appears I'm built out of a brick shithouse. Maybe my perpetual plague of meekness will prevent me from attaining true greatness.

PS. Maybe I'll tie a belt around my dick and neck and proceed to swiftly masturbate myself to death.