Setsuled's Journal

Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck. I really don't want to be in the mood I'm in. Gods . . .

I'm pretty fucking low. Pausing to wait for the tears to move so I can see the screen and all that jazz.

It's been quite awhile since I last felt this terrible. I think I dimly believed there was a chance I'd never feel like this again. So much for that.

I don't want to go into details. One of the reasons I moved this thing from LJ to blogger is because I wanted to start fresh on not hashing out the details of the things in my life that make me feel this kind of terrible, as publishing these details in LJ almost invariably seemed to make things much, much worse. This blog is supposed to be about my work--my real work, not the retail purgatory. Inspired a bit by Caitlín R Kiernan's blog, although she's strayed a bit into the realm of personal lately, so I suppose it's, in a way, only natural that mine would follow.

But I think I'll try to stay away from saying things that'll hurt others. I don't want to get my catharsis at the expense of people I love, particularly as, as a mode of catharsis, this is very fleeting, if effective at all.

I remember once when I was feeling this kind of low I wanted to sell or give away everything I own. I had some vague idea of starting with nothing, and there was something oddly blissful about the idea of losing all my things. I think I'm starting to feel that way now, especially as I got my car back to-day, which brought home to me the conception of having the smother weight of vulnerability strapped to oneself in the form of large amounts of beloved stuff--in this case, my many possessions that I keep in my car.

Let's see, I feel . . . Gods, the words "alone" and "inadequate" really don't convey it. I feel sick; although I'm very hungry, I feel almost afraid to eat. As if my pizza hotpocket is going to turn out to be nothing other than a steaming pile of shit as I cram it into my throat.

My thoughts drift again through estimates on how many people in this world lead or have led happy, fulfilling lives, and it's my suspicion that less than five percent of all the humans living in the past couple centuries were happy and fulfilled in life. Think of all the ones who died slaves. Think of all the women who couldn't pursue their dreams because of social stigmas. Or the children in Africa right now, wasting away and dying before they're ten.

People seem to regard suffering as a natural part of life. For example, often when I complain about a particularly obnoxious customer to someone who has never worked in retail, I'm told, "Well that's your job security. Without them, you wouldn't have a job."

How boorish! The idea that if people simply practiced common courtesy I would find myself out of a job for it. I refuse to say I owe any of the better things in life to gross, pig-headed stupidity. To insufferable people and things. I refuse to accept that life would be worse without bad things.

Anyway, yeah, I'm feeling paramecium. In the face of all my contemplations about kids dying horribly in Africa, I also find the time to feel like I'm being denied something huge and fundamental. Ain't I a lovely human being? So lovely that many a time at TJ Maxx I obsessed with imagining a gun blowing my face open.

Thing is, if I were away from even the possibilities . . .

I did a new page of Doll Merchant.

...

I felt really bad for Vincent Gallo this morning. I mean, think I'm shedding some tears for him, even though I've never seen any of his movies, I could kind of imagine something of what he must have felt, and I'm certain he didn't deserve that humiliation. I felt bad for Chloe Sevigny, who I have seen and who I rather like.