All the Stones I've Thrown

This blog thing is just like sitting in a fucking room walled by two-way mirrors. People may read it, but all it ever reflects upon me is shit I already know. I wonder why I bother.

I'm getting a little bit tired of listening. It's what I want to do for those whom I care about and all, but when it's all I do, it gets too much to take. Sometimes, when I think about it, it sickens me how much of the interaction between me and the people closest to me consists of my listening to them vent their frustrations. Once in a while I'll feel that I'm simply unable to bear listening to people talk to me anymore. But to disappear is like holding my breath; I can only do it for so long. When I sense that someone's not feeling well, I'll feel compelled to ask them what's wrong, even though part of me will be shouting, no, don't bring any more of this upon yourself. Sometimes that part of me gets to speak out--it's also the part of me that acts needlessly cold and acidic at times, out of a kneejerk response for retribution--but it never feels right.

I heard a story from Annie recently, and its moral seemed to be, generosity can often disguise dangerous degrees of depletion. How's that for alliteration, now?

Couple that with the fact that every time I open my mouth, I seem to find very little to speak of. Nothing significant ever really happens in my life. People come and they go, and I come and I go, and nobody changes anything. I've come to expect that, and the worst part is, I'm continually proven right.

It's not fair, really. For everything to be so transparently meaningless. Every effort failed, every opportunity wasted as soon as my thoughts turn to it. I don't deserve to be disappointed by things that haven't even happened and people I've barely met. Do I?

Wanted to go to the live soundtracking of Zemlya by Hymnen, who opened for The Hold Steady, but I couldn't get even a single other person to go. I thought the concept was brilliant; it wasn't until I mentioned it to J later that night, from her reaction, that I realized how bizarre a notion it actually was, and how utterly alone I probably was in being enthusiastic about going. That about sums it up. The things I want don't make sense to anyone else, and the things others want don't make any sense to me. Sometimes it actually feels like my system of values is being actively eroded.

I would've just said fuck it and gone on my own, but I really don't know what the fuck this is; I can't even do the things I want on my own, because I can't get around without someone to drive, or at least split a cab. The only things I can seem to do are things other people sucker me into halfheartedly tagging along. I'd rather rot. I'm done hearing the phrase, "you're welcome to join us." Bastards, I'm as welcome to join you as you're welcome to have me. I might start saying that from now on, actually:

"We're going to get some dinner. You're welcome to join us."
"Yeah, well, you're welcome to have me join you."

There's only so much following a guy can tolerate.

But last night I hung out with the Woodcliffe team, and it was good. Went out for fondue and didn't get back until almost midnight. Eating fondue takes a long time. There was a party at their place, one of the tiny everyone-knows-everyone deals, and after a few rounds of silly drinking games I actually started to feel--something--like I was comfortable being around those people, like I enjoyed their company without any real reservation, like the things were doing, playing with the cat, kicking the soccer ball around the yard, turning Jenga into strip Jenga with a Sharpie, were things I wanted to remember us doing. If I could only feel that way all the time.

I'm tired of the same old order. Tired of that voice that keeps trying to tell me I'll die like in that Verve song. Tired of making demands that nobody else seems to relate to. The ideas that go through my mind make less sense every day. The end, please.