The torpor of the enraged, but trivial, mind.

This post was written yesterday, but malaise prevented me from finishing and publishing it, then. This is not to infer, of course, that I am now malaise free.

July 8

Great thoughts were on my fingertips earlier today!

“Earlier,” I should emphasize. Great thoughts!

I had many wonderful things to say. This morning, it seemed like many things. Many times, when I awake, my mind is an ambitious racer, like the brimming mind of a Chinese high school Ivy League-bound Senior with an IQ of one-hundred and a lot.

My mind was bloated with ideas and thoughts and subjects that awaited transcription to this damned blog. In fact, many times, I recite my ideas so as not to forget them, which invariably happens. I recite them on the bus ride or while driving on the crowded freeways. I recite them walking into my Goddamned job. I recite them while at my desk. The usual work bullshit comes up and I need to release my life for 5 minutes or 3 hours. I forget my recitations.

I’m not priest. I’d make a poor priest.

I cannot remember what was an accepted, or expected, form of remembrance, or reverence. I am quite apt to forget what is expected from me.

I am a social deviant who can’t keep the expected mores of culture in mind sufficiently to remember to obey them. I don’t humor bullshit, but not consciously. I don’t humor it because I don’t care enough to remember, or much less, remind myself. I stumble along while playing the part of clown, jester, and doofus.

“Forget me.” I tell this to everyone I meet, but not in those words. I whisper it with my manner and with my stunted outward behavior. “Don’t remember me.”

Forget me.

I’m not noteworthy of your empty life. All your false priorities make me sick. I extricate myself from culture by disclaiming my lethargic involvement. I am not you, nor of you, so you easily forget me.

This morning, I bought some groceries from Ralph’s Market. I tired to use the self-checkout machine but it never works as I like, so I got mad and threw my items back in the basket and marched angrily to the checkout line. The middle-aged Asian checker acted as if I was mold on a log. She gave me my receipt while talking to someone else, barely bothering to acknowledge me. The bagger bagged my stuff as baggers do. He left my bag sitting amid a mess of other bags and began talking to someone else so I needed to fish out my bag which was buried anonymously in the mess. Asshole couldn’t even take the time to hand it to me. Sorry, what are we paying you for?

My typical life. No one gives a fuck about my life if I don’t. Yet, I selfishly expect their affirmation in the face of my lack of self-affirmation. What a joke! My curse.

Every day is an announcement that this shit is not worthy of me. Every day is an announcement that people value their hangnail more than my displaced life. Every day is a day I wonder how death can be worse, but still, every day I find a reason life is worthy of incredulity.

I have ideas that are stillborn on my fingertips.

Today was a day. I write about my lack of ability and torpor.
The finest meta cave tragedies of esoterica. I can’t write. I’ll write about that.

Fuck.