I am typing tonight’s blog entry into a text file for now, as my web host is being a bitch.

But what the fuck else is new, my whole life sucks shit with a straw right now.

I am not feeling good.

Here I am, at the bottom of the pit again, at that special, special place in my mood cycle where all the pain and frustration and digust and horror boil over into a scaling sea of scalding anger and bitterness inside me, and I feel crazy and complicated and wild and trapped.

But what limb do I gnaw off to get out of a trap made of my own stupid and pointless fears?

Something in my brain, no doubt. In the limbic system. Hmm, there must be some knitting needles around here somewhere…

So as you can tell, I am not a happy fucking camper right now, I am in that terrible mental state that I get into now and then, whenever I cycle back around to it, where I hate hate hate my entire life and hate myself and hate everything I do and just want to leap out of my own skin with an unearthly shriek and dash myself into tiny pieces of filthy worthless flesh on the rocks below.

These are the worst times, when the depression has reached some kind of peak (or nadir?) and merely being low energy and kind of sad all the time just is not cutting it any more,

Cutting it… hmm, lots of people cut themselves. Maybe I will try that.

Nah. I could never go through with it. I am fundementally a sensible person, damn me, so the more dramatic forms of expressing my depression and disgust with life are not really open to me.

I am too boring for them.

I have never even attempted suicide, Well, not in a sense that would make sense to anyone living outside my skull anyhow. There have been times when I seriously considered it, just to get away from the pain for a while, but it never left the preliminary planning stages.

And all this infected finger bullshit has certainly shown me that now matter how bad you think things are, they can always get much much worse, so it is not like self-harm would help anything.

It would just make my life suck even worse.

So much for that way out.

Besides, self-harm is way too much work and too big of a commitment. I am more the self-neglect type.. It’s easy, it’s super cheap, it requires very little commitment, and it definitely will kill you eventually, especially if you are a super fattie like me.

All you have to do is fail to do the things you really should do in order to stay healthy, and then your body slowly falls apart and makes you even more miserable and you don’t have to lift a darn finger to make it happen!

In fact, laziness is not just part of the plan, it’s the principle modality of the entire syndrome.

Think about it. Cutting yourself requires finding a sharp knife, picking a spot, hiding the scars from friends, controlling the bleeding, Alcoholism and other addictions require so much work to maintain, with all that grubbing for cash for your next fix, then coming up, going down, crashing, and all that other bullshit… it’s practically like having a job.

So for the truly lazy and listless, worthless depressive hunk of crap like me, really there is no substitute for simple self-neglect. All you have to do is… nothing!

And the best part is that nobody will have any sympathy for you, because from their point of view, you definitely could do all these things that would make things better. How hard is it to just do this and that, tiny little things that any faintly competent ambulatory cell cluster should find easy to the point of reflex action? They are tiny simple things! You could totally do them!

Well then, we do not care about you, because you are just doing it to yourself.

And that’s just it… you are!

So you just stay out of the way and do not draw attention to yourself and quietly rot away in the dark.

Oh well. If I get angry and fucked up enough, maybe I really will do something crazy and at least become a more interesting form of lunatic.

As is right now, I am boring as hell and I can’t imagine why anyone gives a damn about me.

I sure don’t.

I mean, i try to care about myself. I really do. I try to dig down through all the hardened and calcified layers of depressive sediment to find at least the basic core of pure selfish greed and self-centered desire that all human beings are supposed to possess.

And I get faint readings of it now and then, maybe find a small deposit here and there. But never enough to translate into actual motivation. The fear creates far too strong a gravitational force for any serious movement. Just a slow creeping over the ground as a thin layer of suffering flesh without purpose or intention.

Drifting for the sake of drifting. Motion simply because the flight response cannot ever be completely overwhelmed by the desire to hide. There is always leakage. And that expresses itself as slow random tentative and ultimately quite pointless and futile motion.

The hardest thing about a time like this is that I know that it is temporary. I know that if I write it out and express the dark ugly feelings and vent like I am about to go critical, the dark glowing toxic cloud will pass, and I will feel more or less better for the next cycle.

But knowing this, I still have to go through the process as though I had no idea it was temporary or it simply will not work.

Smart or not, you still have to do the god damned work.

And how fair is that?