I’m a man of wealth and taste.

Wait, no. I’m a man of poverty and crudeness.

But maybe not forever.

I have been pondering things about my future lately. Specifically, about where I will end up after I graduate.

Like I have said before, I really really hope it’s Toronto instead of L.A. Well, technically, I hope it’s right here in the GVRD, but I am told that’s not too likely, so… Toronto.

I could do Toronto. I am sure it has some funky cool neighborhoods suitable for a sensitive artistic type like myself who prefer a laid back atmosphere. And if I am moving there for a job, I will have at least somewhat of a say in where I live.

As opposed to now, where I end up living wherever I end up, more or less.

It would be a challenge, to say the least, to live on my own again and end up having to do everything for myself. I’ve had Joe as my reality agent for so long that I wonder how rusty I have gotten. Not that I was very good at living on my own for the year or so I did it. But I was extremely depressed then.

And the odds are pretty good that I will end up living alone. I could look around TO for a roommate type situation, but that would be very challenging for my social anxiety. I would rather live alone than live with strangers. Don’t know if I could handle that.

Renting a room in a house might be doable. There’d be more room for people to spread out and have their own space, and I would of course spend most of my time in my room anyhow. So that might work.

And there would be something very comforting about living in a house again. In fact, it would be remarkably like my childhood, what with everyone doing their own thing and having their own rooms and often only meeting briefly in the common areas.

To me, that was normal. We were never a close family. And to be honest, I was the least close of them all because I was the forgotten one, the surprise, the accident.

So renting a room in a house, especially a large house, might suit me. I could socially assimilate with the others at my own pace. But definitely not a set of rando roommates in a small apartment where I would feel trapped.

Another possibility, I suppose, would be trying to contact the Toronto furry community and making friends with some Toronto furs long before I actually have to leave. That way, I might very well end up in a Furry household and living with people I at least know a little, which would go a long way to making me feel better about being in a new city.

And even if it didn’t result in a roommate situation, it would be nice to know a few people in the city anyhow so that I wouldn’t feel so alone.

But then again… I might end up in L.A.

Don’t want that. I didn’t like the idea of moving to the US before the recent election and I sure as hell don’t want to go now. But when you are starting out, you have to go where the work is, and most American TV is written in Los Angeles.

You might think that writing is the sort of job you can do anywhere, so why would I have to move? The answer is that the TV industry puts a lot of stock in having a writer’s room where all the writers collaborate, bounce idea off each other, hang out and shoot the breeze, and in general stimulate one another creatively.

And I am pretty sure being there via Skype would not be the same at all.

And no doubt, I am eager to be in one of these writer’s rooms. They sound awesome. Heck, I might even fit in there.

But I really don’t want to move to the States. Especially if I am going to be making a low wage. If I was pulling down the big bucks, I could insulate myself somewhat from all their galloping madness. But if I am living a street level existence, it would bum me out.

Plus, I would have to get a passport, which means a bunch of medical testing, and I would have to pay for health insurance, which would be nuts, and that health insurance would have to be pretty good to cover all the meds I take.

If necessary, I could jettison all my meds except for the two antidepressants, and hope for the best. Who knows, maybe working for a living would improve my blood sugar without having to take three different damn pills.

And I am sure there are good things about living in the City of Angels. For one thing, if it turns out I really do have some form of Seasonal Affective Disorder, a place where the sun shines all the time might be good for me.

I mean, I didn’t like it when I lived in Silicon Valley, but there, in the summer, everything died. Presumably, in a place where it is hot and sunny all year round, whatever lives there in terms of greenery either is adapted to the heat or lives off of sprinkler water.

Oh right. The drought. Lovely. They got rid of the smog (mostly) but now they have drought. What fun THAT would be.

I drink a LOT of water.

Still, I might just have to become an immigrant to the U S of A in order to get work in my chosen field of writing for TV.

I can see that leading to a fair number of political arguments if I don’t step cautiously. Must always remember that arguments aren’t important, especially around hotheaded Americans with little understanding of the world and access to firearms.

I have a feel that I could be a total show biz player if given the chance.

I just wish I didn’t have to “go Hollywood” to do it.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

I talk a lot in this space about being He Who Walks Through Walls, a five dimensional being, from the point of view of others. My mind moves in ways they just can’t grasp because it’s too different. And I step through the social and mental barriers that confine others, sometimes without even knowing I am doing it.

That’s not me bragging. That me explaining part of the genesis of my isolation. Because if I don’t know I am doing it, I have no idea why people are staring at me and I can’t understand why others don’t do as I do.

Hence, they look at me like I just grew a third arm out of my hest and used it to adjust my crotch. And I can’t see why.

I really can’t. From my point of view, what I say doesn’t seem to be markedly different from what others are saying. And yet, somehow, it doesn’t connect.

Maybe it’s how I say it. I’ve talked before about my realization that there’s an inherent pause before I speak because I am always thinking hard about what I say and I am not comfortable speaking from emotion or impulse.

I was gonna work on that. But it’s so hard to change the habit of a lifetime.

So it might just be an artifact of my being out of sync with others. But I don’t think so. I think there has to be more to it than that.

Because it’s not just that my timing is off. People literally don’t grasp what I am saying. They understand the notes but they can’t hear the melody. Something about the actual content of what I say is beyond people. I wish I knew what it was.

Other than it being a matter of intelligence. It’s not impossible that the problem is that what I say comes from an IQ far enough above a lot of people that communication on my terms is simply impossible for them. I hate this line of thinking and I have resisted it so far because not only does it make me feel like I am being an elitist prick but it suggests that my lack of connection with others is simply unsolvable.

Not without some kind of major paradigm shift in my head, anyhow. The kind that would allow me to view others as childlike inferiors and talk down to them. And I really do not want to do that.

But maybe I have to. I don’t know. Maybe I am beating my head bloody against a brick wall when I am trying to speak to others as equals. Maybe a certain recognition of my superiority would actually make me a better person.

But I don’t want to go there. I loathe the very idea of it. I don’t want to hold myself above, even if it’s justified. I want to be with people, not above them.

And it’s not like I am incomprehensible to everybody. There’s people who get me. People who run at my speed, I suppose, or at the very least, I can run at theirs.

Where was I going with this before I began to ramble? Oh right.

So I do walk through the walls of reality that hold a lot of people together. But then, what holds me together? What keeps lil old polymorphous me from oozing down the drain?

Sometimes it feels like there’s nothing at all holding me together. Nothing except a constant input of will and concentration. Mental muscles frozen in place by constant exertion holding together a barely viscous puddle of person, and the accompanying terror of letting go and having all that is inside me come out.

Maybe that would be the best thing for me, honestly. Here comes the flood. Let the river wash me clean and take my troubles away from me.

But I am so scared. Who would I become? What would be left of me? Would I have to start all over again from scratch, like V from V For Vendetta?  Would I even recognize the person I am when all the bad stuff is gone?

I keep picturing this smug sarcastic prick who is so totally convinced of his own effortless superiority that he doesn’t take anything serious and manipulates people for his own gain or even just his own amusement and who always seems to be three steps ahead of the consequences of his actions and doesn’t even care.

That’s a version of me that the world can do without.

But I do wonder sometimes if being that prick would work better for me.

And besides, it’s not like that’s all of me. It’s just a facet. The reality of the situation is that I am one complicated dude with a lot of facets to my personality and that’s why I have such a hard time integrating it all into one identity.

Back to walls. My lack of them seems, to me, to be both the key to all my powers and the reason I am so fucked up mentally. Or possibly the result of it.

It’s hard to sort out cause and effect in these kinds of things.

I look at people in their carefully cloistered lives and wonder what it would be like to have that kind of sense of security and safety. I’m such a creature of the trackless tundra that I honestly don’t know.

I find it very hard to imagine being so limited. I instinctively eschew limitation. Ironic for someone who has suffered from lack of structure, both internal and external, all his life.

But I automatically avoid limitations and so I end up standing apart, alone, looking in at that bright warm world where others prosper then picking up my bindle and moving on.

Is it even possible for me to come in from the cold? I don’t know. Maybe. Sometimes I am afraid I would melt. Lose all sense of who I am.

Then again, who I am isn’t exactly working that well for me now. Maybe some melting would do me good, let me assume a new shape.

One that works better for this crazy world.

One where I can be happy.

And nothing is more important than that.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.