I'm tired of hurting people with my flailing existence, and I'm scared that I hurt people by telling them that my existence feels like a flailing one, like there's a sudden expectation that they'll help me. Truth is I'm great at being lonely, like an introspective mountain. My self-sufficiency is such that I only need people a little. So I'm burying myself in Charlie Kaufman films and Dan Harmon interviews and unhealthy people who blog and Twitter celebrities, because I need people in my life but I feel like I have nothing to offer. I'm not particularly funny, I'm hardly employed, definitely not a good writer, not well educated, and worse yet I'm bad at describing myself. I'm only magnificently insecure.
And that's what I bring out of people. I'm a giant weeping head floating around reminding people how sad they are underneath all the social pleasantries that seem to evaporate when I'm around in these moods. I wish I were a smiling Buddha onto which everyone saw their own goodness reflected back at them. Instead I'm the devil; I'm Pierce Hawthorne; I'm Eric Cartman; I'm Peter Griffin or anyone on Entourage; I remind everyone how shitty they can be by my own marked shittiness. When I'm telling people to go to hell, blasting out homophobic rants, bemoaning how alone I am, writing a post about jerking off or telling a girl how much I need her, it's all too vulnerable and icky. I can see it in their faces; they want to be stoic and detached with their ironic "Foxy Grandpa" hat but I won't let them. I'm scary because I reflect their humanity, their gross, sloppy, childish, biological selves they wish they could erase. I get it. I wish I could erase those parts of me too.
I wish I were an angel, but I'm a villain.
As it stands, my life doesn't tell a heroic story of change. My life story is that of a college dropout who can't catch a break romantically, creatively or financially. In my current state I couldn't die happy. I still have things to do, lives to affect, love to share, goodness to spread, a God to atone with. How I wish I were simply a source of joy, a joke-teller creating a spring of life-sustaining water instead of another cynical adult pissing into the Ganges. I desperately try to see the potentiality of my life and the lives around me. I try my best to see God in everyone, but that vision causes me pain when we all fall short. Hope burns. It doesn't let you be content, which is both good and bad. It makes you want more; it doesn't let you die happy. I'm too hopeful to die. Not yet.