I feel like I am going to implode. I am not fit for this world.

It’s an odd thing to observe, even though I’m typically my one and only observer. A little thing trips me up, then I handle it incorrectly, and my confidence is shot to hell for the next week. My chest hurts, I feel like I can’t breathe, I want to rip off all of my skin and lay prostrated upon the pavement to bake in the burning spotlight shining down onto my failure. Small mistakes are magnified to horrific proportions. They stumble onto the end of an enormous, 25 year long line of fuck-ups, heads held high for having fulfilled their life’s purpose, and I drink them in as one continuous statement, one long run-on sentence that sums up my life, my being, myself. I see this as a person might see an abysmal academic record. Piles upon piles of flunked tests, repeated semesters, a quantified judgment of your low worth in a certain context. For me, the context is existence.

I received such a judgment today, the kind that we all have at some point in our lives, and it revealed to me the price of my equal parts irresponsibility, apathy and social anxiety. I sit here wondering what I should do, wishing that I was still young enough to wait for a parent or some other nurturing-minded loved one to swoop down and fix it. I think about ignoring it all, and the consequences of brushing off more adult chains that I clearly can not bear. I am not a good person, which is to say, I am not good at being a person.

Perhaps the answer is a reduction in complexity. My feeble mind is obviously not well equipped to juggle the many rigors of normal life: a stable relationship that, god forbid, might some day result in spawning another life, the purchase of a home, the purchase of multiple vehicles, the juggling of credit accounts of all different flavors. Yard maintenance. Cooking meals. Maintaining a professional demeanor at work in order to advance. Looking for other job opportunities? You may as well ask me to shit a dinette set.

Those things are just essentials. What about the things that a sane person needs in his life, the social things, the entertainment? An adult can be reasonably expected to have and actively maintain at least a handful of close friendships. He might belong to organizations that focus on his hobbies, and those organizations may mantle him with duties. Dating, and all subtle parts of that overwhelming idea. Conversing with wait staff at restaurants when there is a problem. Quelling rude comments from other humans who may be in close proximity. Balancing wit with humility, generosity with self-respect, devotion with pride, anxiousness with aloofness. It’s a game, and it has many unwritten rules, and I do not know any of them.

It’s all a game, truth be told. From birth to death, the game is life, and it gets more complex with each passing day. All of these things that I’ve listed, and innumerable others, are parts of the game, and to be anything resembling normal you must be adept at them all. I fail at each one of these things.

I’ve begun to ramble.

The Enamored Whale

The point of this post was to dump out the massive weight developing on my chest before it suffocated me. It has failed. It is still there. Perhaps it is too large of a weight to be forced into submission by an idiotic blog entry.

I think I need to take a break for a while. From everything. I need to stop spending so much fucking money. I need to do some spring cleaning, literally and figuratively. I need to take stock of every facet of my life and force myself to act on all of their shortcomings.

I need to do something.

Anything.