When I started this blog it was for a reason. I had this high and mighty concept of unlikability – of relatability and disgust – of forced self-disgust. People were meant to read and not say: “That’s like me!” but rather “Oh, shit. That’s like me.” They were meant to see the thoughts they had extended to further, lazier, grosser, more selfish ends and realize the dystopian future that they had set out before themselves. My blog has changed. I got tired of walking the fine line of lying and truthing – of constantly worrying about how an audience would react and if that desired reaction would be appropriate – and instead I just wanted to write. I now write.
My alarm was supposed to go off at 5:30, but it was now 5:37 and I was waking up without any additional sound. Should I go back to bed because my alarm didn’t go off? Should I set my alarm for 5:40? Should I assume that this is an illusion and break my cell phone? No. I should just get up.
I take a shower, I check my email. I have two more messages from a Fantasy Basketball fan who has been pestering me on how to improve his team. I tell him that I just don’t think Ray Allen is worth having on his team. I head out the door with my cell phone, wallet, and … keys? My keys feel small. That’s because yesterday I had lent the store keys to a co worker and then forgotten to get them back. Shit. I call her. She wakes up. She feels bad. I feel badder. I run. I run all the way to her apartment. 1.1 miles. It takes me 15 minutes. I didn’t run the whole way. I’m still making up lies.
When I started this blog, it was about a lot of things that were unlikable, but it focused on the lazy in us. Each title ended with “seems like a lot of work” and each entry was generally about me being unable to function correctly in society because I was trying too hard to not try. I wasn’t just lazy like Nisse Greenberg is. I was lazy like H2$. H2$ refused to admit he was wrong. He was right and he was a douchebag about it.
I arrive 9 minutes before I’m supposed to be at work. I grab the keys and stand out in the dark with a girl in her pajamas. She isn’t pajama rich. She’s pajama poor. I’m also pajama poor. We stand pajama poor staring out of half closed eyes made of anger we can only misdirect at our life situations. She is calling a car service so that I can get to work on time. I’m attempting to distract her by talking about how everybody I passed on my jog through crown heights was drunk and coming home from fun nights out, but I was going to work. I’m attempting to distract myself from the fact that I am going to work and there are drunk people coming home from fun nights out by talking about it. One of the groups I passed was two females and one male. He wanted to have sex. They also may have. None of that was interesting. What was interesting was that one of the females was carrying a portable metal detector that airport security uses on personal searches. I guess it’s phallic?
H2$ wasn’t simply lazy though. He was so set in his present that he refused to understand how his actions affected the future, and how his actions were affected by the past. His lack of understanding of history forced him to demand equality in gender by assuming equality in gender. When presented with an inequality, he tried first to indignantly equalize. This was a manifestation of laziness. This was refusing to study history. He thought he was just an asshole, but he was an asshole to women more then men because he couldn’t accept the basic concept that patriarchy had given him such an advantage in life. He was an asshole.
She hung up the phone. “You could just ride my bike.” Less money, get on my journey immediately. “Yes.” Two jackets, one pair of jeans, and loads of sweat, I headed off on a road bike meant for a 5’2″ girl in the pitch black darkness. I’ve been wearing two jackets lately because I like the way they look and feel. My lower jacket has good pockets, and feels nice against the skin. My overjacket looks hearty, and has a nice collar. I’ve come to somewhat respect a look that fits. I still don’t think there is objective good and bad in taste of clothes, but I do think that clothing is a form of expression.
The night before I had been in Bushwick at a concert that included a toy piano, a band with 7 members and 12 instruments and two video installations. It was loftlike because it was in Bushwick and had long flowing fabrics attached to the wall and ceiling in a way that made it feel very theatry. Oh, and the concert ended with a square dance. I love square dancing. I love dancing. After the first song, a couple of us went outside to drink our beers and get some fresh air. A man in a suit, blonde crew cut, and authoritative walk approached us quickly and demanded that we get inside with our beers. We obliged politely and watched as the man perused the concert, seemingly looking for someone at fault. Kyle and I began discussing how we had so quickly obliged to enter with our beers despite the fact that he had no real authority. Who was this douchebag? Who was this asshole? If he had had a scruffy beard and disparate plaid would we have listened to him? No. Kyle stopped mid-sentence. Wait, I was into this, I wanted to rant indignantly about image! “Dude,” Kyle started “That’s the guy.” I looked toward where his finger would have extended to see a man in a blonde crew cut, red hoodie, and triangle patterned neon tights. It was him. He was still walking authoritatively around as if something must be wrong. Our mouths unable to speak as this man had completely proven our point for us, we watched as he took off his hoodie, revealing the tights to be a part of a one piece leotard, climbed a ladder on the wall only to grab a child’s sombrero to wear and unhook one of the fabrics, which cleared the dance floor for simply a hanging chunk of fabric. Kyle and I gravitated toward the dance floor. “Oh he lives here, he’s an acrobat.” He climbed up the fabric and did some crazy circus shit to square dancing music. It was the most badass thing I’ve ever seen.
When I began writing, I did not want to seem cool. I did not want to get myself laid. I wanted to make others feel as bad as me. I wanted others to share in my shame – to recognize, embrace and the runaway from that embrace of the things that made them bad people. It was a disgusting goal, but I was living as a disgusting person – unemployed, half-bearded, and consisting mostly on free samples from Whole Foods. I was a scumbag, but I was bringing you all down with me.
I got to work only 9 minute late. The bike ride sucked though. The bike had those foot pedal foot holders, the ones meant to wrap around your feet. I wear shoes that seem like some sort of mix between gogo boots and clown shoes so fitting into anything meant to wrap around normal footwear, but I couldn’t just switch around the pedals because then the foot holders scraped against the ground. I panted as I rose my key to the door. I’m out of shape. Biking is tough. I didn’t even have to go uphill. It still seemed like a lot of work.
My blog wasn’t simply mental masturbation. It was full on masturbation. It was a fantasy of my life that in the end made me feel unfulfilled and dirty because I was unfulfilled and dirty. Mostly because I masturbated so much. I sat in my bed full of crumbs jerking off to the ramblings of a jerk off jerking off on a page.
I then worked a 10 1/2 hour day.
Things have changed.
A year and a half ago I started off lazy. Now I exercise before working a 10 1/2 hour work day and then heading off on a nearly two hour journey around Brooklyn to buy a new bike. Oh yeah, I did that too.
I should have just taken work off.
I think I’m running away from myself.