I have always had in me this burning desire to answer questions, whether they be for my own edification (Wikipedia is a godsend in this department), or my own back-asswards way of getting others to know me. However, being as warped as I am, I am often unable to find those with the right questions or answers handy. For instance, if I have a distant look in my eyes, as I'm sure I do frequently, and you asked what I'd been thinking about (the wrong question), in a recent instance I'd have the unpleasant choice between lying and admitting that I'd been wondering whether Apatosaurus was physically capable of gnawing through its own throat. For the record, I hope none did, but it might be kind of nice to know whether they could. For this particular question, Wikipedia is of little use. So yes, being as mildly insane as a fruitcake has its drawbacks (the answer to the right question).
There'd likely nothing in my little corner of the world like the prospect of spending most of Spring Break alone with my roommate's cat to shatter an overactive ego. Would that my ego were active enough to be thus fractured. It's day three and I'm already starting to notice the effects of isolation. (Without the Internet, I'd totally crack.) I have a strange desire to kick my ass for not being hardier, as little sense as that makes. Hm, sounds like some motivation my father would have had. He worked hard to try to make his sons stronger, more manly. I think he may have missed his target a bit in my case.
I've been vacillating between deciding to actually take care of myself again and self-destruction. Every time I start to feel like I should be better to me (eat better, drink less, etc.), I get caught up in these hedonistic guilt trips, if such a thing makes sense. It often starts with ennui and a desire to feel something besides depression and nervous energy. I then remember how many years I might have before me, and deciding that I don't deserve that many and I should try to seek pleasurable, life-shortening distractions. (2 birds, 1 stone, right?) I've refrained thus far from suicide attempts, hard drugs, drunk driving, and anything else likely to drastically shorten my life span, but the fact that this has become a motivation I actually listen to disturbs me enough. I refuse to make any sweeping statements such as, "From now on I'll..." as I appear to be addicted to new beginnings, to resolutions that I can't stick to. My own ability to be hopeful has become my worst enemy, causing me to seek a secular sort of salvation in better habits, in friends and lovers, in potential careers and homes, in new distractions and the distraction of ridding myself of old ones. I'll catch myself thinking, "If only I had X," X being financial freedom, or friends to talk to, or mutual love, or a car, or good looks, or a way to make a measurably positive impact, or another chance at life, or more stuff, or less stuff, "then I'd be much happier." This pattern of thought makes me nauseous because I know deep down how false it is. As much as it pains me, I'm able to think of a reason that any of the things that I want (that are possible) aren't well suited for me.
My other major mental addiction is self-discovery. I'm capable of inventing all kinds of motivations for my own behavior and being just as convinced of those as I am of those things which really do drive me. That combined with my shitty memory really puts a damper on the efficacy of deep-sounding blog posts and other forms of seemingly therapeutic venting. I really do have little more insight into myself than I do into others; I just have a larger, though incredibly inconsistent set of data for myself. "Why?" is the worst question to ask me. As a lover of philosophy, and principally concerned with the whys and what nows, I feel impotent in that I have no answers for anyone. I just have to make do, with my tiny points of pride embedded in the vastly larger suspension of guilt and depression. It looks kind of like a fruitcake.
