Diary 11/20/11: Feelings

My grandmother died. I still haven’t cried about it, and now I don’t think I can.

Crying is not like cumming that way.  A weird thing to type after the death of one’s elderly grandmother, but true.  Crying is not like cumming.  If you are about to cum and you get interrupted, the next time you are faced with any sexual stimulation whatsoever you will blow the load of your life with such force that it’s almost painful. With crying, the thing hits you initially, tries to hit you, and then if you don’t cry right at that instant you aren’t crying at all.  The moment passes and it just goes away.

The same with joy.  You have about a minute to experience joy when something good happens, and if you don’t whoop and celebrate and all that shit, well, the thing that made you joyful just becomes another fact; it can be fit into a larger philosophical pattern and it becomes: I better not fuck it up. Or: this is just going to go away.  Or: in order to sustain this thing that gives me joy, I better not get too excited about it.  Especially with girls, if you meet a girl whom you like so much, you know– if you meet a girl that gets you excited enough to actually feel teenage hopefulness and excitement, that very feeling will make you fuck up.  It sucks that the state in which women are interested in you is basically apathy.  Because that means anhedonia.  If you need to not feel anything to get the people who would make you feel something interested in you, what is the fucking point.

Right now I feel nothing.  I am sitting out in the park; it is a clear day; the Coors-can-looking crags of the mountains in the distance are visible in sharp relief, including the cool snow-capped one you can’t always see.  My cat is faithfully curled up in front of me and it is sunny with only  a few wispy beautiful clouds and it is exactly seventy two degrees.  There are autumny-looking trees down the hillside and the light is slanting right into magic hour, early now, in the way that reminds you of autumns in your youth.  And I feel nothing.  Or rather, I feel contentment, but contentment is next to nothing.  My eyesight is still good enough to pick up individual grains of soil in this magic hour light and I don’t have cancer.  I don’t have irritable bowel syndrome.  I am not going bald.  I am a financial wreck but not in a sense that it affects my day to day life in a nice apartment next to a beautiful park with a car that runs and delicious food to eat, and a nice big TV with a crystal clear picture for the state of the art video game system upon which I play an incredibly awesome game that amuses me for hundreds of hours.  Women find me attractive.  Women find me attractive for the kind of thing I do effortlessly, which is just to speak well and be funny and write two or three long sentences followed by one extremely short sentence.  Women find me attractive for using alliteration and assonance and anaphora and epiphora when I write about trying to fuck twenty two year olds at the age of thirty six; they like it and write me messages on the internet saying they want to sleep with  me.  Both my parents are still alive and I love them and they did not beat or molest me.  Beautiful, interesting birds frequently do fascinating things in my line of sight.  I have good friends and I am employed, and while it is at a job that I genuinely hate,  at least do not have to feel that anxiety of being unemployed.  There are flowers where I live, always.  The produce is fantastic.  Even at the Vons where only Mexican people shop and the number one selling item is doubtless some generic brand of diaper, the produce is fantastic;  they just don’t have to truck it very far.  I am a good cook which means I will experience great pleasure at least twice per day, and my shower has excellent hot water and water pressure.  My couch was free and really suits the room.  There are many small problems in my life but I know how to solve all of them.  I just haven’t checked them off the list yet.

But I feel nothing. Nothing except what I would call inchoate anxiety about my job except it is a very fucking choate anxiety about exactly what I’ve been fucking up at my job.  Whatever though, dude.  Don’t fucking worry about it.  Everything will be fine.

Tags: diary