Original article posted by ravenpaine:

Journal of a Night

Entry 33 – February 16

I hate me and I hate the day that I have been suffering through.

(Written posthumusly on February 17)

I’m tired, I can’t think and I can’t seem to have enough coffee to wake me up, the caffeine is giving me a serious case of the runs and I fear that I will not make it through the majority of today without some terrible amount of betraying all of the things that I want to be but seem to keep falling short of.

I met this person two days ago? Or three, the weekend blends together so terribly. I have forgotten her name as it is difficult to pronounce and hard to spell in your head without seeing it written down, which I have not. I found her insipid and annoying when I first met her, and seeing her again last night and having the misfortune of speaking to her for four hours I believe that I have heard all of the useful (if it can be called that) things that I ever will hear from her.

None of which stopped me from having sex with her at 2 a.m.

I assume that the patheticly bad day that Monday was had something to do with it. From a strictly spritual standpoint I have no idea where my soul was or for that matter what Vincent was doing somewhere when I needed him here. Damn unification plan is splintering my injured psyche all over the place and it is becoming clear that this “sex drive, id thing” is going to need a name soon so that I know what to write on the demented fucker’s tombstone.

To set the record straight on all of this, I really am not for sex, at all. Really. It’s a potentially dangerous, emotionally harmful thing that destroys many of the people who foolishly engage in it.

Which of course means that it can be a wonderful and vibrant sort of act. The dichotomy of its potential ills makes certain that a positive side lurks somewhere making all of the mistakes and idiotic choices something of a good idea.

Not currently though, not for me. I reallised near the end of the summer when I was having sex with one of two girls each week (and a threesome in there somewhere) that I couldn’t maintain a lifestyle in which sex featured as anything more than a distant idea with someone I might love.

Ah yes, love, the poorly defined indefinate ambigous emotional attachment that I long to have to someone who will respricate said feeling. I’ve written one horribly vague sentence and already you can see the flaw in the whole damn thing.

It’s nuts. It’s a psychotic fractured piece of horror that must be eliminated. That or I need to get me some. Some, not from a specific person but somewhere in my soul. Somewhere within I need to feel like the things I do matter.

Which they do. Honestly? My problems have nothing to do with a lack of faith in myself. I know that I can do things. I know that I can succeed and will succeed and that the things I do make a very real difference daily in the lives of the people I hold dear and close.

The problem, you see, is that I DON’T ACTUALLY EVER FUCKING DO ANYTHING!! I spend all of my time attempting to do things that will, get this, make me feel like I’m okay enough to do something important. I waste all sorts of energy trying to feel good about myself so that I will have the energy and will power to do what I think is important and will MAKE me feel good about myself. I never accomplish the things I want to accomplish because I won’t allow myself to be okay enough to try.

Are you getting this? Somewhere inside me I won’t let myself even try to succeed because the certainty of my success is so great that only by doing nothing can I fail. So I do nothing. All the time, for some… reason?

Bugger all of this for a lark. I know what I want and I know that I don’t deserve it, but I know also that I would deserve it if I would go out and get it. The whole emotional/mental conundrum I find myself in is all perpetrated upon me by an evil genius of Moriarty Faustian Orwellian proportions and I think there is some cold hearted Naziism in there as well.

Damn you, damn you evil self. I should put you in a box, put the box in a sack, and hurl the sack into space.

Enough talk, enough prattle. If I want results I’m going to have to go out and get them.

One week. I give myself one week to get my proverbial shit together and solve some real problems within my dangerously psychotic psyche before I take some very extreme dangerously chemical measures to put an end to it.

I may not agree with medical sciences ways of dealing with mental problems but I do know that a zombie Rodney is much less likely to do irrepairable damage to the general populace and certain people in specific than a fully awake barely in control evil manifested Rodney.

Now, to get to this plan before the will power runs low and the self hatred wanes.

Rodney TGAP
Bonne nuit, bonne nuit to you all.

PS, no I’m not sucidal; stop asking.

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