Well, I suppose it takes effort not to do anything when you can make your situation better. And in that case, I'm not really at the bottom any more since I don't spend enough time trying. Who has the time, anyway? I don't. This diary entry is being written in the brief moments that pass between my various appointments. I'm very much in demand these days, you know?
Who am I kidding? Nobody, really. I think it's pretty obvious I'm not in demand. What the hell do you do with me? I'm mopey and boring and apparently a pushover since Cam managed to dominate most aspects of my life. Except, of course, wardrobe. I think she liked it when I put on whatever came out of the drawer first, even if it was one of her dresses. It was just laziness.
Too lazy to conform. Too lazy to be normal. Too lazy to feed myself properly. Just too lazy to do anything except what I have to, and I only survive doing that because there's a cold bed at the end of it all.
Sometimes I wonder how I keep myself alive. I'm not really motivated to do anything. What am I working for? I suspect I'll live my life in bland apartment buildings, staring at the cars in my free time, still unsure what I'm moving towards. Besides death. And why be a waste on resources when I know how it's going to turn out? I could end it, just so I'm not taking things up that a more useful life may need.
It isn't a question of whether life is worth living or not, but rather, practicality. I don't have a reason to go on. You probably couldn't think of a definite reason for me to go on. Eh, whatever, really.
I ought to tell Nick, so he can tell everybody else. I'd probably do it on the weekend after giving my boss due notice. That means it would be in Nick's house, and since he's recently painted his walls, I don't want to do anything bloody. None of that slitting wrists, shooting myself in the head nonsense. Imagine cleaning up that mess! I'm more considerate than that, so, as much as I hate swallowing pills, I'll probably buy a lot of sleeping pills or something. Nice and peaceful and clean.
I met Paul at the library. I was probably in a good mood the first time we talked. A stealthy sort of good mood. Today, he just got on my nerves. I don't know if it's his excessive averageness, or the niceness or jealousy or what. Maybe it's because he's got such a nice, ordinary life. It doesn't seem like he has ever needed to think about the sorts of things I do. His head is nicely shut off from certain problems. Paul doesn't spend his evenings wondering why he goes on.
He asked me about my book and I wanted to punch him in the face. Quietly burning rage? I don't know. I should stop questioning myself and try to get my sleep. Maybe that's part of my problem. I get strange ideas when I'm sleepy, and my perspective shifts ever so slightly so that things don't make sense any more.
I wish people wouldn't tell me there are people suffering a lot more than I am at the moment. Yeah, that's really good consolation. I don't even feel like I'm suffering at all. It's more about this weird mood I'm in. Why can't I bring myself to feel anything besides irrational anger? And what the hell is with that bump under my ear?
Guh.
This place is a mess, but I think I'll sleep. The work will still be here tomorrow morning, but I might not be. My head feels like a ball of wet cotton and it's going to drive me insane.