The alarm sounds, and my bed regurgitates a reluctant me into the world of consciousness. I am spat into my apartment, which swallows me for the 20 minutes it takes for me to slam my hair into something presentable and locate clothing and untorn pantyhose. My small space then spits me out onto the street. I am swallowed by the subway, and spat out by the bus stop. Swallowed by the bus, and spat out on the sidewalk in West Humboldt Park. Swallowed by my office, where I gurgle around for 8 odd hours before being spat back out onto the street, to be swallowed again by the bus, to be rejected until I again reach the subway, after which I’m swallowed by my apartment again, where I can pussy through some semblance of independence, until again falling prey to the siren song of sleep.

Again, again, again …

Tell me, what’s the use of sleep if I’m only going to wake up to the same cycle of urban peristalsis? I lack the muscles and patience of Sisyphus. I swear to God, it seems like everyone on the train is reading Ayn Rand, and how funny is that?

"My philosophy, in essence, is the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute."

- Ayn Rand

Whatever, you joyless harpy. Gimme instant gratification or gimme death.

When I was little, before I could fully register them, negative emotions manifested as eerie nausea, which I felt when I met with things geared towards me but I didn’t like. Highlights Magazine, Amelia Bedelia, and Inspector Gadget all fell in these categories. I now know the words, and can classify them as stupid and condescending. I would feel vaguely carsick, and not know why, so I’d try to forget about it. I’d also fall into pillows of delicious melancholy when I was younger, and be confused why the sadness I was feeling was so comfortable.

To this day, my sadness is felt as a roiling weight in my stomach. I know this is more angst than depression, that it will pass, but when it surfaces, it’s always the same.

There are times when I feel quite calmly that I am nothing.

I sit on the subway and stare at the window, which reflects the window opposite, which reflects my profile and the scene outside of the window directly in front of me. It is a hypnotic spiral to emptiness. Look, I hate it. This detachment from everything other than myself is despicable; it is not me.

These swamps happen, and I cast myself in various game shows in which I am host, contestant, and audience. I’ve grown out of most of these cycles, but they’re still pathetically tempting.

There’s the “Who Will Notice If I’m Sad” show, which I lose as soon as I get off my ass to spend time with friends, who either immediately cheer me up, or they mention if I seem despondent, and we talk about it.

There's the “How Can I Distract Myself” show, in which I compete with myself by creating more drama than what was there to begin with, through various self-destructive means. That’s grown fucking transparent and tiresome, so I’m pulling the plug on that one.

Then there’s the fun “How Long Can I Lie Dead on My Living Room Floor Before Anyone Notices” game, which always plays for only a short season, thankfully, not only because it's lame, but also because people inevitably call to see how I’ve been or where I’ve disappeared to, and they get concerned and yell at me if I don’t return their calls.

So, in the game show sense, I never take the grand prize. In the reality sense, I’m a big fuckin’ private drama queen.

But still, despite the evidence and rationale, the feeling of nothingness remains. I realize this is neither rare nor dire. I also realize that lately, I sound like a miniature version of The Bell Jar, and I’m sorry for that. Funny enough, I’ve never read that book. But know by its reputation that it belongs on the shelf next to Catcher in the Rye in the section “How to Verbalize Your Annoying Angst.”

Soon, Morpheus will arrive with her eyedropper full of poison, which she’ll empty into my ear to drag me to sleep. And the cycle begins again, until it wears itself out.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Moths, and Relative Nonsense - 08.18.05

I Finally Have Internet Access in my Bedroom. But, No Ashtray. - 08.09.05

Here I Am - 08.02.05

One-Armed Paper Hanger Earns her Wings - 07.29.05

Sugar & Lemon - 07.28.05

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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