God, am I tired of being goddamned tired all the time.
I just got back from the kitchen, and boy are my arms tired. Along with the rest of me.
Going to the kitchen and spreading peanut butter on some Triscuits should not take this much out of a fella. But I feel like I just barely escaped a pack of wolves here.
And that’s not just me whining. My heart does not feel right at the moment. Feels like it is working awfully hard given that I have been seated comfortably for fifteen minutes.
And I don’t deserve this shit. I’m a sweet guy. Super nice to almost everyone. Fun to be around. Funny and wacky and silly. And so on.
And now my ass has started hurting pretty bad. I’m going to have to lay down and I have not even gotten half way through part 1 yet.
My life is an acid bath.
Well that was weird.
Things are more or less normal now, thank Dog, but the last time I sat here, my literal butt was hurting. It was this weird throbbing intramuscular pain right at bottom of my butt cheeks. where they meet the skin of my legs.
And I think it went deeper than that as well, which caused me to wonder how the hell I had managed to injure my coccyx (tailbone) in my freaking sleep.
Just another day in this condemned building of a body of mine. It’s like living in an old house. You never know what will break down next.
And moving out is not an option. Fingers crossed for the future, though.
It would be highly amusing to get to the ripe old age of sixty and then just as my body is getting ready to break down completely I get to jump ship to a new robot body and keep on being me forever.
Take that, motherfuckers! I got away with it.
But would that really be me? It’s a hard question. Am I a physical flesh and blood being? Or am I just, as C.S. Lewis put it, a soul wearing a body?
If I think of myself, my real true self, as a complex pattern currently stored in the wetware that is my brain, then in theory said pattern would be me no matter what medium is carrying it.
But that violates individuality. Because if my pattern can exist somewhere else, then it could be copied to a dozen different robot bodies all of whom think they are me.
And if the original meat and bone version of me is dead, all their claims are equally legitimate and things could get pretty ugly.
I can’t help but think my robot clones would start killing each other off just as soon as the orgy was over.
Because hey, who doesn’t want a lover who’s into all the same things they are?
Buit once we’re all fucked sucked and bucked out, THEN the identity conflict begins and drives me to murder my other selves.
Might keep one or two around though, for company, and for backup, and for insurance.
But mostly for the sex.
More after the break.
i cant do anything
Let’s talk about the heavy burden of my feeling of total incompetence.
First, we will start with the root of the problem :
I am, in fact, very clumsy and uncoordinated. Always have been. And I am not just talking about just being bad at sports and ballroom dancing.
I mean like, it makes everyday tasks difficult because I am such a spaz. Between my uncoordinated muscles and wonky eyesight, I honestly think that I am clumsy and messed up enough that it would qualify as a disability all by itself.
I am so many different flavours of fucked up. Just call me Baskin Robins.
So my sense of my own incompetence is not entirely illusory. I have a lot of trouble with things that most people can do without a fuss.
But in a sane and compassionate world, someone would have figured out that I had serious problems and done something about it when I was a kid.
As to why these problems exist in the first place, I think the main problem was that nobody played with me in certain ways known to be key to developing one’s motor skills when one is a toddler.
That and the fact that nobody knew how bad my vision was until I was six or seven, and how can you develop proper hand-eye coordination when your eyes don’t work?
And then there’s the elephant in the room : Dumbo.
Butt seriously, the elephant in the room is the way my siblings treated my clumsy and uncoordinated self when I was in those tender preschool years.
They got frustrated. I got nervous. They got mad. I got scared. And due to the magic effects of adrenaline, the more nervous and scared I got, the more timid and clumsy I was, and you can see where that leads.
It leads to me being told that if I really want to help, I would just stay out of the way.
And that’s what I did, thereby never actually improving my bad motor skills because nobody would let me do anything.
Nobody to play with, nobody to teach me anything, and me too scared to try things on my own and teach myself because I felt like if I did, someone older than me would instantly materialize and get mad at me for screwing things up and making things worse just by trying.
Emphasis mine. Obviously.
This did not keep them from giving me responsibility for things like my own laundry and doing my clothes shopping at a fairly early age.
Well, what mattered was what was easiest for them, obviously.
This sense of my own utter incompetence at damn near everything practical, then, was a product of a number of factors, and has cursed me all my life.
I have this pervasive fear of something happening where my total spazziness will be revealed in all its inglorious weirdness, and I will be cast down and alienated, and feel like used food all over again.
No wonder hide from the world in the realms of the mind.
I kick ass there!
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.