11 April 2019

 I have been going through a lot of self-pity and imaginary dialogues, tonight... I do not want to broadcast the exact particulars as to why... I do not even want to respond to phone calls or IM's, tonight...

because I feel that i'm not sensitive enough to communicate in the pleasing manner that most people want. I guess, when I believe I'm just being honest, others read it as harsh and blunt.

I do not want to win friends and influence people by supporting their fantasies (or just giving them a participation reward), especially if those are jarringly out of sync with science. (Not a fan of flat earthers or anti-vaxxers or other fringe movements due to the way they promote and discuss their therories {an aside, perhaps})

I do not claim to know all. I do not claim that my stories always end in a moral or a point. I dislike most humor because of the harms it plants... I will willingly claim how I might be mistaken, yet I am soundly thrashed if I dare point out how others are acting in contrary ways...

no, that's not right, either. I'm just trying to create theories to explain others' behavior, and I am hampered by paranoia, and my own fantastic extrapolations. I am not a fan of gossips, because I can only imagine how they talk of me when I am not near.

I once posed the question (back in '92): "How much of our lives is just idle conversation?" Perhaps I should update it to "How much of our conversation is lost in transmission?"

...and yet, I write a text wall of a post, to the silent Facebook screen (instead of with my left hand, on paper, as has been suggested) - hoping,perhaps, that some attempt to voice the ideas will register on my peers; as I have not seen them turn to me, their ears, to better diffuse our wounded tears... (there I go, assuming that anyone else cares enough to shed a tear for me and for our estranged relations...) {feeble attempt to drift, poetic, maybe}

I write to Facebook, because I have so little trust left, to talk in private. I write to Facebook, because it does create an (imperfect) record. ...and I speak to myself, because I'm baffled by feuds. ...and I hope some traces are left, when I'm finally gone, for people to realize how poorly they got to know me? (because everyone wants to talk about their shit, and I usually find myself pushed into the role of listening...)

...and yes, the suicidal thoughts flared up, again, tonight - imagining getting off the bus at HEB, walking to the William Cannon overpass, and nose diving into traffic. More sinister, perhaps, playing Russian roulette with my high blood pressure and hoping to die in my sleep under cardiac or cranial arrest...

...and, yes, the financial stressors are weighing upon my mind, in addition to the relations stress - probably why the extreme escape presents itself, again. there was a bit of incompetence at play, today, too, and worries about my family, and more

I'm going to pause, before I try to predict your questions, if any, or solutions; and especially to push away the dialogues in my brain that those predictions will spawn.

Besides... my mind keeps telling me that "no one fucking cares, anyway..."