I Hope My Loud Rock And Roll Music Offends Your Sensibilities
I'm too young for my dreams to be crushed. I'm supposed to come to the realization that my life is shit when I'm 44, lying in my bed next to my frigid wife, dog Scruffers, three kids all named some variant of "Annabell" in their quaint beds down the hall, Chevy with a quarter tank in the garage, unfulfilling desk job, alcoholism, secret porn stash hidden in the babies playpen, dark circles under every part of my body that circles logically grow under, pubic hair in grey knots. I'm supposed to wake up and realize none of my dreams will be fulfilled and satiate this with a new car and an affair with my secretary. Does having a mid life crisis when I'm 19 mean I'll be dead at 38?
All these half-baked dreams of becoming an artist or a musician or a writer or anything but a pitiful sad sack of a man living alone and cursing the world aren't supposed to hit me as dead until I get older. Why can't I continue to lie to myself and say I'm good at anything? Life is supposed to crash down on me at least at a quarter life crisis... I ain't even old enough to legally be an alcoholic yet. I have to go through a friend in order to buy alcohol so I can drink my sorrows of not having any friends away.
I know all about the self-fulfilling prophetics of depression: If you telly ourself you're not good at something, it shall be so. So in order to kick this feeling sorry for myself bullshit I've got to stop telling myself I'm bad at everything. But come on. I don't want to lie to myself. I think I'd much rather have my dreams pre-crushed then to go through life inspired to do something and then have it all crash down on me. I'll give up hope now, save myself the time. I can catch up on all the reruns I'd miss if I had potential.
I feel like my brain is a negative influence on me. One of the keys to overcoming depression is to quite simply stop being depressed. But once you get into the habit, you're too depressed to have the willpower to get out. And I ain't even depressed, really, just bummed. Bummed that I'm alone, bummed that I got nothing to do, bummed that what I once called my hobbies no longer excite me. All the things I should feel after living a little while longer. This time in my life is supposed to be the time where I look back twenty years from now and call these "the days". The days, ha! If these are "the days", my real mid-life crisis is gonna hit hard, causing me to be immobile and incontinent, which I'm not far from now.
I've been depressed to some degree as far back as I can remember. But I always live by the same simple credo: No matter how sad you get, there is no excuse to listen to emo.
All these half-baked dreams of becoming an artist or a musician or a writer or anything but a pitiful sad sack of a man living alone and cursing the world aren't supposed to hit me as dead until I get older. Why can't I continue to lie to myself and say I'm good at anything? Life is supposed to crash down on me at least at a quarter life crisis... I ain't even old enough to legally be an alcoholic yet. I have to go through a friend in order to buy alcohol so I can drink my sorrows of not having any friends away.
I know all about the self-fulfilling prophetics of depression: If you telly ourself you're not good at something, it shall be so. So in order to kick this feeling sorry for myself bullshit I've got to stop telling myself I'm bad at everything. But come on. I don't want to lie to myself. I think I'd much rather have my dreams pre-crushed then to go through life inspired to do something and then have it all crash down on me. I'll give up hope now, save myself the time. I can catch up on all the reruns I'd miss if I had potential.
I feel like my brain is a negative influence on me. One of the keys to overcoming depression is to quite simply stop being depressed. But once you get into the habit, you're too depressed to have the willpower to get out. And I ain't even depressed, really, just bummed. Bummed that I'm alone, bummed that I got nothing to do, bummed that what I once called my hobbies no longer excite me. All the things I should feel after living a little while longer. This time in my life is supposed to be the time where I look back twenty years from now and call these "the days". The days, ha! If these are "the days", my real mid-life crisis is gonna hit hard, causing me to be immobile and incontinent, which I'm not far from now.
I've been depressed to some degree as far back as I can remember. But I always live by the same simple credo: No matter how sad you get, there is no excuse to listen to emo.
posted by MC Harv at 5:15 PM
8 Comments:
oh dear. the malaise seems to be spreading.
if I were closer I'd buy you beer.
Malaise spreads like mayonnaise, its pungent smell wafting into the core of the sandwich of the soul.
oh great. now I'm hungry.
i think i had a crisis at 19, 25, and 30...with one on the way. such is life. it gets better when you can get yourself beer, but lay off the mayonnaise if possible.
Blogger ate my fucking comment.
Not to make light of your post, but picture aside this might help.
I think you should hold off abandoning art and music until you're at least two-years out of college. That's my time-table anyway.
MescalineBanana, What the Bleep do We Know is horrible. I could have stayed home and read an intro to philosphy book and the same thing would have been acomplished, except I wouldn't be out $7.50.
-Thomas
That caveman looks sad. Let's pat him on the head and tell him he's a worthwhile individual.
Jack (pat pat) you're a worthwhile individual.
eh. that sucks. I shoulda rubbed instead of patted.
William Shatner's rendition of Mr. Tambourine Man usually does a pretty great job of turning my depression into vitriol.
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