Friday, February 8, 2013

Too Late!  You're Already Here!

    Hello good acquaintances and minor friends.  Good news!  My court order that I have to continue doing what the doctor ordered has been lifted!  But I still will, just because I'm a good sport like that.  I've actually been taken off half my meds in the past month, and I actually feel a little bit better.  A little more 'awake' and 'alive' and stuff.  I've slowed my drinking down to about once a week.  The only way things could be going better is if I were taking classes, but as I was looking at the list of classes available leading up to the spring semester, I couldn't find any that I liked, or would really be able to do the work in, because I wasn't interested in the class.  This is a severe problem.  I started out at NYU as a vaguely interested Social Studies Education major, I went to Queens College as a resigned English major, and now I'm thinking about switching it up again.  Credit-wise, I'm basically a junior, and all the classes I would have to take to finish my degree basically just line up with classes I would have to take for whatever major I choose.  I was thinking philosophy would be semi-interesting, but the truth is it would probably be a lot more tedious than interesting.  My mom suggests I major in computer science, or something with computers, because that's where the jobs are, but that's not really up my alley.  I know there's no jobs for English or Philosophy majors, but there are jobs that are available just having a college degree, regardless of what it's in.  If you are reading this, I wouldn't mind if you reached out and gave me a suggestion of what to major in, or what you majored in and how it went.  I also wouldn't mind if you reached out to me at all.  I haven't talked to someone my age in a month.  Another major I'm considering in is Linguistics, just because that seems pretty fascinating to me, but I don't really know too much about it.  I don't think I'd be able to go back to being an Education major.  Whereas once the idea of teaching history to high school kids was appealing to me, both as a steady job and a worthwhile one, I now realize I don't feel up to speed with dealing with 180 students a semester, and the passion I used to have for history is long gone.  I was also considering majoring in music, but I've altogether pretty suddenly realized that music is just not in the cards for my future.  I've spend the last eight years wasting away, writing about a score of "C minus" to B minus" songs, and writing hundreds of "F" songs, basically because I was having a unseemly tumultuous love affair with the one body that didn't mind resting on my midsection-- my guitar.  But recently I've had the wherewithal to dismiss it, because I slowly came to turns with the fact that I just don't have the same innate musical intelligence, aptitude, and attitude that real, successful musicians have.  Back when I was writing my "C" songs, it was a learning experience, but mostly my unconscious goal was just to get another semi-decent song in the tank, something to prove all the time I was spending on guitar was worth something.  And now that I have a dozen or two semi-decent songs, and have for a while, that reasoning has gone out the window.  And, living at home, facing the possibility that I may never have an opportunity to impress someone with my song writing talent, simply because I don't know anyone, it all seems kind of pointless.  The truth is, my guitar playing skills have diminished from the adequateness that they once were, my singing voice is now merely whining out of tune with the guitar, and, tellingly, I have no real desire to sit down and write some real lyrics, you'd think I'd finally have enough evidence to put this 8 year long dream, something I've spent 1/3rd of my life on, to rest.  Plus, in theory, to write new songs, I would need to be in the world, sociably, to have inspiration.  Of course, anything's possible-- my feelings may change, I may decide that music is something I have to grasp onto because I have nothing else, I may find some sudden and unexpected wealth of inspiration and/or talent, but the way things are looking now, I somehow have to just put it all behind me.  The problem is, with it too late to take spring classes, I have to go several months more (and potentially, even longer than that), with essentially nothing to do but watch T.V. and listen to music.  And after doing just that for the past four years (if not my entire life), I've come to realize that it just dulls my brain and simply leaves me with a schedule for pointless living-- watch these shows at these times during the week, listen to the same damn songs I've heard a two hundred times before, and so on.  I've started reading, in which I think I finally found a worthwhile alternative to this lifestyle, but, while once I've picked out a book to read I can devote myself mentally to it without much of a problem, I have a hard time getting started on a book, and in some corner of my brain, I denounce hardly every book as not being relevant to me, and thus it would be a displeasure and tiresome effort to read, so I never even give it a chance.  There's always writing, as I'm doing here, but writing just to write and not to entertain seems like a chore which I actively avoid (in exception to this entry), and, truthfully and unfortunately, I just don't feel I'm in the right mindset to be funny most of the time.  I feel every entry getting further away from the random, silly humor that I once was semi-effortlessly capable of creating, and more bogged down with the mostly sad and boring details of what I'm doing, how I'm spending my life, etc.  Paradoxically, in one way I feel more free to say whatever I want, because I know I don't have many readers, but in practice, it's because of this I've lost the drive, or ability, to be funny and entertaining to a mostly silent audience.  Not to mention, I'm 24 years old now, not 15, and while at the top of my game, at 15, would make me out to be a promising young talent, now that I'm 24, and actually worse in the skill of entertaining writing, I just seem like just another sad and pointless and useless voice that people would only read out of complete boredom or some sort of loyalty to me.  At least, that's how I would interpret it.  Furthermore, hand in hand with giving up guitar, reading books has made me realize I'm not at the same level of real writers.
    Part of me feels like the only way to get out of this funk is to go back in college, and to dorm, so I could revive the main part of life I've been missing-- social, and, in turn, the other parts of my life would proportionately get better, too.  However, I don't have any money, my parents don't want me to dorm, and taking out loans isn't really an option.  So I'm stuck at home, which I have been for over four years now, with no one to talk to but my parents, who are less real people and more caricatures of the people they used to be at this point.  The only strong point in favor of them, which, granted, is a big one, is that they're relatively congenial and easy to live with, despite the constant noise of MSNBC, dealing with my dad's stupid and repetitive jokes all the time, and the otherwise rather uninteresting-ness of my contact with both of them.  Overall, it's just a fairly meaningless existence with only a vague and seemingly improbable way out.  Go back to Queens College for two to three years, stay at home, and then start looking for a job, of which there are few, and try to save up enough money to finally live on my own.  This is the way my parents see it.  However, the prospect of that seems daunting to me, part because I have no social outlet to balance out taking the classes with, part because the drugs I'm on make it hard for me to concentrate, especially on subjects I'm barely even interested in, and partly because, even if I do go through all of it and get a job, I've spent so long not working or taking classes, that I don't know how I'll even be able to hold it down.  This is a large part of why I've held onto music for so long, because it, I feel, is the only job I can do, because it's something I do in my free time anyway.  But, like I said, I've recently forced myself to reconcile this with the cold truth that I'm simply never going to make a living writing and playing music, enough said.  And all of this, keep in mind, is in addition to my illness, where I hear voices in my head all the time, which pretty much would have to magically go away if I wanted a real shot of achieving some sort of peace of mind (for my own self, and for being able to concentrate on whatever work I'm meant to be doing).  The voices, in a way, make me feel like I'm imprisoned in my own mind.  I can't think a conscious thought without it being commented on, or judged, by the ever present voice(s) in my head.  If I'm doing something relatively active, it usually keeps the voices out for the time being, but it's only a short relief from them.  I've never really discussed the voices here, partly because it's not funny and partly because I'm self-conscious about it, but I guess I'll describe it a little better, since I've already brought it up.  They're not evil, they don't tell me to hurt myself or others... the best word to describe them, now that I've put some thought into it, is snarky.   At worst, they completely disturb me, at best, they make me feel like I have some hidden wealth of knowledge that manifests itself in this strange way, but most of the time, they just make me feel stupid and sick.  It's hard to describe, and I don't particularly want to, so I'll just leave it at that. Well.  Anyway.  This was an entry, possibly, without a single joke.  Wow.

-2:48 P.M.   

Friday, February 22, 2013

YOU'RE OUT OF ORDER!

         Hello.  I am going to write an entry.  With my hands, a keyboard, and neurons and synapses.  I'm drinking Coca cola zero vanilla.  That's the parody to Zero Dark Thirty.  Zero Vanilla Thirty.  Except there's no thirty.  And also it's correctly labeled as 'vanilla zero.'  Because otherwise it would mean there's zero vanilla, when there's actually a substantial amount of vanilla.  Just enough to not get sick of it.  For most people.  I get sick of it easily.  That means when I'm sick of it, I paint a picture about how sick of it I really am.  If you understand that joke, you're paying too much attention.  And if you don't understand that joke, you're paying the correct amount of attention, but you're getting punished for it by being confused.  I was looking back at old entries from 2004-2007, and I realize that even though I've heard from a substantial number of people that it's clever and funny, I found it really rambling, not so funny, and possibly just a precursor to my later occurring and diagnosed thought disorder.  I don't know how I got away so long without people thinking I'm crazy.  Especially when crazy is one of the two words in the website name. 
    So, I've been reading a lot of books lately.  I read two memoirs by people who had schizophrenia, which were interesting and made me thankful that I'm not worse than I am.  Because, while my symptoms are no picnic, compared to some people, I'm getting off easy.  I reread A Catcher In The Rye, and this time I think I understood it better.  The key is, in the back of your mind, you have to keep track of what day it is in the book.  I think that makes sense.  It makes sense to me.  And if not, hey, the website told you it would be crazy.  But it's also partly just because I'm too lazy to explain myself half the time.  I really am.  Also, the book made me realize how much I hate phonies.  I've been smoking a lot of cigarettes lately.  It's almost as if I'm addicted.  I really want to quit, because I think I'd feel much healthier, physically and mentally, without all those chemicals in me.  But I keep coming back.  I don't have to tell you it's hard to quit cigarettes.  You know that.  I don't have to tell you anything you already know.  It's in the rulebook.  But I still can, although I will be docked five points.  Isn't Five Points a military college?  Or the title to a book with five points?  Hands have five points.  Actually, six, if they're not connected to the body.  The wrist beginning isn't really a point, but it can't be dismissed as being irrelevant to the discussion of how many points hands have.  Five points hands have-- holding, grabbing, sifting, writing, typing.  There you go.
    Anyway.  So yeah, whereas if you read that last paragraph several years ago, you would think "I can sort of follow this, and it's somewhat fun (somewhat) fun to read," now, knowing my illness, you probably just think, "is Michael taking his meds?  I feel bad for him."  And projecting thoughts onto other people is really just a benign form of paranoia.  So now that's added into the mix.  Benign.  You sunk my battleship!  Or you're German.  Or you're someone who wants to cut off one of your fingers.  I feel really bad about putting this crap out there, but I have nothing better to do.  In battle ship, is there a ship long enough to go from B4 to B9?  I guess nobody knows.  I have a B9 tumor.  That was B4 I saw a doctor.  Only stupid people will think this is funny.  I hate myself.  Oh well, this is a bulk business, not a quality one.  I guess.  Remember The Incredible Bulk?  I'm going to name my kid Bulk.  I really will.  See how that works out for him.  I'm getting some new books soon.  That should be good.  It better be.  Otherwise, who cares.  The Oscars are this weekend.  I'm rooting for the one about those people who did those things in that order.  The Oscar for best Oscar nominees are Oscar the Grouch, Oscar from the Office, Oscar from The Odd Couple, "OS Car" for every single scene shot where there's a car off screen, and Oscar De La Hoya.  It's anybody's game, really. 
    I might as well shoot myself.  I don't have a gun, though.  Or a needle.  So it's really not an option.  I guess I could just reactively say "shoot" a lot, that's an okay option.  That's what this website is.  It's just saying a word, and probing it into homophones (that might not be the write word).  Anyone could do it, it's not particularly funny, and so on.  So as I was saying, I might as well shoot myself.  I don't have a gun, though.  If I did, I still probably wouldn't shoot myself.  It would hurt.  And I'm in favor of not feeling pain.  Unless it's pain mixed with pleasure.  Like remembering how I used to have friends.  It's painful, because I don't anymore, but it's pleasurable, because I had some good times.  You don't know what you got till it's gone.  I think that's a song.  But there's no way of finding out.  I'm writing this in cave drawings.  Then I type it up later.  I've been playing a lot of guitar recently.  I still suck, but that's not the point.  I enjoy it.  I keep having bad dreams.  And then when I occasionally have a good dream, I wake up upset, because I assumed it would have been a bad dream, and I'm upset that I was wrong.  I might see a movie this weekend.  I don't really want to see any of the movies that are out, though.  I might just look out my window at the parking yard in my backyard and at the house across the ways from mine.  I probably will see a movie, because I need money for drink.  With the drugs I'm on, my tolerance level is very low.  I just realized recently that I should account for that when I'm drinking, and drink less.  I'm an idiot for not figuring it out sooner, but I digress.  If I actually say something useful or funny or on point, that would be the real digression.
    I hate how the title is in Comic Sans now.  I have to write something silly, so it makes sense in regards to the font.  And the entries are boring and repetitive and depressing, so having a silly title is out of context.  I remember I once followed this comedy website, and eventually participated in the chatroom that was associated with that website, and the first time I went in the chat, everyone was making a lot of jokes, and I said something about how it was obvious this chatroom was "comic sans."  I was very clever for my age.  Really, if what I'm doing is clever, someone really lowered the bar or something.  And I guess since I'm sick, being able to write anything is some sort of achievement in the eyes of some people, so I guess thanks for lowering the bar.  I'm slowly starting to lose weight.  Which is good, because I miss being attractive.  I used to have very low self esteem, mostly because I was short.  But then I had sex, and I was like, "I guess I'm good enough!"  Which has always really been my goal in most endeavors.  Anyway.  What's cookin' good lookin'.  That's my pick up line.  I don't think anyone has said that in forty years.  I got to do something with my life.  First, end this entry.  Second, take care of everything else.  Yup.  Anyway, I guess I'm done.  See you later.

-5:04 P.M.