How does one communicate what amounts to nothing more than festering, hateful, bile? Crying themselves to sleep? Cutting their wrists with a broken Smirnoff bottle? Indecent liaisons with live stock? I suppose acting out would be a good way to convey the general unhappiness that descends on you like a homicidal vulture descending on a straggler, but then again, so is writing about it on a blog like some sort of depressive, whiny twat who's only met a few people on his floor and, even though is trying to be more outgoing, is failing miserably, or at least to a degree where an onlooker would say "Man, that kid is socially retarded."
It's not that I'm socially retarded, I'm merely introverted. Most of my favorite fun-time things to do are usually activities one pursues alone. Writing scripts. Watching old movies. Dancing naked down an empty road brandishing carrots. The usual. I do enjoy the occasional party or kick-it, wherein I'll become so intoxicated or crossfaded, I start vomiting vulgarities at houseplants, but an existence based solely on casual sex, copious imbibing of alcohol, and smoking an entire forest is not a fulfilling one; it is vacuous and exhausting, and I don't understand how anyone can enjoy it.
I'm sure extroverts will vehemently declare it's just because I'm reclusive. But I know extroverts who would rather go hang out at a movie theater or strip club or something, with absolutely no desire to die of alcohol poisoning. Parties are fun, but too much of a good thing is always bad.
Maybe I just need the quarter to start, which would at least give me a justification as reclusive and antisocial as Dr. House under house arrest (LOL GEDDIT). I really want to start writing some damn papers, reading some interesting literature, and discussing (read: obnoxiously dismissing other people's interpretations) themes and symbols and whatnot. An existence without work is a bleak one indeed.
PS. OOOOOOH I'M SO CLEVER
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