It occurs to me that I haven’t really made any progress in my life at all for a number of years now. I have more degrees than I did before, yes, and I’ve seen more of the country and of the world, and I’ve done a few more things, but I’m not actually any closer to doing anything that I want to do, and at a time when I’ve got the smallest social network I’ve ever had. I suppose moving all over the place all the time and having no money to spend on entertainment will do that to a person.
My mind moves too quickly anymore; I can see an entire logical argument through from beginning to end in just a few moments, but there are too many things in the thread to articulate, and if I try to slow things down and take the cognitive branches necessary to enunciate every component of the argument, I lose the logical thread.
So instead, I wind up making simplistic statements that (one hopes) have a deeper intuitive foundation, such as: The best reason never to kill yourself is to spite all of those people who complain about those who kill themselves. I’m starting to really hate judgmental people who call everyone else whiny or who try to analyze-from-a-distance everyone else’s problems while they have so many of their own that nobody can count them.
It’s a tough week or two. It’s a tough month. I still have to call a few friends and tell them that actually I haven’t made it out of Salt Lake City and likely won’t until fall. It’s eleven in the morning and I’m not employed and I have bills and laundry, but all I want to do is curl up into a ball and drink.
That or overthrow the government and despotically have hundreds of thousands of people executed just for fun.
My internal censor still works, that sentence was originally much more provocative. I suppose that means that I’m still sane, or at least that I’m still onboard with the social contract — enough to not be an obvious risk yet.