Or, put another way :

Now available on Cafe Press!

I am totally going to order that from myself.

It’s a thought that has been on my mind a lot lately. Here I am, all brilliant and talened and shit, and yet I rot near the bottom of the financial food chain because I have a head full of bad wiring that makes it so hard for me to actually do things.

In fact, get this – lately, I suddenly remember that I am incredibly intelligent and a very gifted, unique, and powerful writer as well as a charismatic and likeable guy with a genuine and sweet personality – and my immediate reaction was irritation.

“Oh right, I have many amazing gifts that most people would give their left gamete to have just waiting for me to use them…. what a pain in the ass. ”

That’s how it goes if you have a trulky degenerate soul, folks. When I think about my many gifts, I am not filled with the joy of a recent lottery winner, nor do I feel the wonder and delight of a child looking at all the enormous presents with his name on them under the tree on Xmas morning.

Nope. It’s more like :

Me (Grumpy Cat voice) : Oh right. I guess that means we’re supposed to DO stuff. What a freaking drag.

That’s why I forgot my gifts so often. It’s so much easier to imagine I am pathetic and worthless and have nothing to offer society but disgust and dependence.

Not better. Just easier.

This is, of course. madness. In this case, madness as defined as the repeated denial of what is incontroversially true because it is psychologically inconvenient.

Something something Fox News.

It’s especially bad because the truths being denied are ones that 99 percent of humanity would consider to be extremely positive. Superficially, it would seem like being in denial about winning the lottery or landing a date with a super fuckable celebrity.

Reminder : I am going to write in detail about my sexuality soon. You’ve been warned.

And I mean GRAPHIC detail. With illustrations. And diagrams.

Anyhow. Denying my gifts, weird to most people, etc. But to me it makes a disturbing kind of sense because my depression makes me so damned resistant to action of any kind that I even resist the light tug towards productivity that acknowleding my substantial gifts brings.

And gives me such a feeling of futility. I feel like I am a high performance sports car with a dead battery. A powerful machine that isn’t plugged in. A powerful supercomputer that could solve humanity’s problems only nobody remembers the password.

A winning lottery ticket stuck behind the winner’s chest of drawers, never to be found.

I better stop now before I go off on another imagistic tangent.

It’s all very tragic, when you think of it. But I try not to think about it because it only makes me anxious and depressed.

It would be one thing if I felt like there was a way out of the trap. And there is, but it’s very indirect and unsatisfying. It involves the usual tedious incremental improvement in my mental health that going to therapy and writing this blog brings me, and I have to keep hacking away at that based on faith that I am, indeed, getting somewhere, and one day will break through into the light of the sunlit lands beyond my prison cell.

And in truth, progress is as inevitable as it is unsatisfying.

It’s my id we are talking about here and it does not like to wait. It wants to do things in big pushes and overwhelming attacks, not through patience and persistence. It has been violently suppressed for a really long time and wants to bust out and explode into the night sky with glory and light like a roman candle made of awesomeness.

But it can’t. Not yet. Because my internal structures are far too feeble to support that. It’d be like trying to launch a rocket made of used chewing gum and taffeta.

The power is there – in spades. The payload is spectacular as fuck. The effect could be downright miraculous to behond.

But I am too damned weak inside to pull it off.

Let’s talk about something else now.

Namely, how pissed off I am at DropBox. Here’s the story :

I have been communicating with the nice lady who pays me to write stories in text chat format. She says she would love to buy more work from me. She told me to go look in the DropBox folder for the project for some documents about a new format and how to submit work and so forth and so on.

Great! I was looking forward to this. I want to get my writing game on.

So I click the link and basically this is what happens.

DropBox : We’re sorry, you can’t add that folder because you’re out of space.  You will have to pick a plan and pay for more space.
Me : Nonsense. I will just go delete a bunch of stuff to make room.
DropBox : Look at all these lovely plans you can buy.
Me : Just let me get at my files so I can make room!
DropBox : No files. PLANS.
Me : So basically, you are holding my files hostage for ransom.
DropBox : Plans. PLANS. PLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANS.
Me : Well isn’t that fucking lovely.

So I can’t get to this very important folder because DropBox are being skeezy dicks and extorting money from people at virtual gunpoint.

It’s not all that much money. $12/month or so. But at least for now,l I am too pissed off about DropBox’s dirty tricks to give them any god damned money.

Plus they are claiming I have 9 gigs of files on there and there is no way that can be true. I have never put anything bigger than a meg or two in my DropBox.

So they are spicing up their exortion with lies.

Why is everything so much more complicated than it needs to be?

And with that happy thought, I’mma nap nao.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.

WARNING : This song is fairly dickish. I used to find it hilarious, which is a little disturbing. But then, as we are about to discuss, I am not quite the happy bouncy saint that I pretend to me.

Really feeling my angry and antisocial side lately. Let’s call it The Ogre. It’s the side of me that wants to tell the whole world to fuck off and leave me alone. It’s the side of me that resents ever having to leave my cozy little tomb here to go out and deal with the world. It’s the side of me that, if it had its way, I wouldn’t even watch the Daily Show and Colbert with Joe and Julian.

I would stay in my room, sitting here at this computer, nearly all the time. And it would not be long before I was another lunatic neckbeard on the Internet, railing against whoever I have chosen to blame my pain on when the real reason I am miserable is that I have cut myself off from humanity.

It could happen.

I think this Ogre of mine is particularly active these days – active enough that I thought it was time I pushed it into the light and examined it – because it actually did get its way for a while due to my grappling with pneumonoia.

Not only did that get me five “glorious” days of almost no need to socialize, afterwards my usual social schedule was a lot lighter due to entirely rational fears about my being contagious. So when I did go out and socialize, it was to the neutral territory of some dining establishment, then back home. Easy peasy.

So this unspeakably ugly Ogre of mine got pretty fucking comfortable. It gloried in the vast reduction in social stressors in my life and reveled in the short term benefits of less strain, toil, and anxiety making life a lot “easier”.

Not better. Just easier.

So  now that I am returning to my previous levels of socialization, my Ogre is pissed off solid, and for once, it is speaking up and making its desires known.

Usually. it just lurks in the background as inchoate anger lacking a real focus and often making me not angry but anxious.

Then again. lately it has at least been noticeably peaking once a month or so. That’s when I sit down to blog and get all ranty and growly and nihilistic.

How very like an Ogre that is. Just call me Gay Shrek.

Well this time, I am going to get at least somewhat closer to the root of the problem instead of merely venting.

Don’t get me wrong… venting is awesome and I always end up feeling a whole lot better afterwards. It’s like a much needed expectoration.

Don’t worry, that’s as gross as my metaphors for catharsis will get tonight.

I am a big time proponent of catharsis. A lot of people are walking around with problems they think are insurmountable but which could actually be solved by having a good long cry or telling the right person to go fuck themselves.

I’m just sayin’.

Oh shit, I was supposed to finish that ghost thing today. Dammit. Well if I haven’t done it by Saturday afternoon, I will do it then, I promise.

Anyhow, it’s not hard to see the root cause of my attacks of Ogre-ness as being my lack of sufficient emotional outlet. That’s why the anger and frustration builds up inside me and makes a lot of things more painful than they need to be.

There is a sexual component related to my troubles “finishing” when masturbating as well. That would piss off any man.

Even a freak like me.

So I need better emotional and/or sexual outlets. We will leave the sexual part aside for now due to not wanting to get into the whole thing while I am trying to talk about something entirely different.

But fair warning, there will be a very explicit blog entry about my sexuality very soon.

Trigger warnings will be plentiful and detailed, however.

Back to emotional outlets. Right now, this blog is more or less it. Well, it, and therapy. Despite my genius I have no knack for expressing my emotions, especially in realtime, as their stimuli are happening.

In fact, I am so out of touch with my real, active, true emotions that often I can’t even tell the difference between emotions related to what is happening to me and latent emotions that have merely been triggered by what is happening to me.

Subjectively speaking, it’s all the same to me.

Presumably, it would be a lot easier if I didn’t have such a huge emotional backlog. Or at least if I was more consciously aware of it. As is, all those latent emotions are on my “treat as if not present” list of things I pretend are not there so I can get on with my day and my life.

As coping mechanisms, it is terrible. It vritually guarantees that I will be constantly tripping over things I have blinded myself to, things outside the tight narrow focus of my laser sharp intellect.

Those two things are definitely related – the tightly focused laser beam brain and the tuning out of everything that doesn’t fit in it. I have spoken here before about how us brainy types have this powerful emotional suppression center in our brains.

And that is great for focusing the intellect on the sorts of abstract reasoning at which we brainy types excel.

But it’s lousy for our psychological health because, at least with some of us,.it gives us the ability to suppress any emotion we don’t like and hence we end up with a whole lot of emotions we never dealt with at all, just shoved into a box and forgot about.

And man are there a lot of boxes around here. Can’t move an inch without tripping over one. But it’s fine. This is normal.

At least, it is for me.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.