Or, put another way :

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.