tito: Picture of the main character from the game ICO. (Default)
Today shall be a do-something day.

I haven't fully decided what I'm doing, but I've got three hours and thirty-two minutes before my Shadowrun game... no, maybe more time than that. Either which way, Around 5-6 I'll be online doing little of importance. In that time, it's time to make some useful contributions in some way.

I'm getting back into old sleeping habits. Enough of that malarky. I ought to be sleeping at decent hours and getting up and thinking about my day. Getting up and writing. Someday I'll get around to writing regularly, and then we'll really be on track.

Resume writing. Laundry. Figuring out how to clean the bathtub. Seeing when Dad will be checking my account next. Contacting that lovely woman who cleaned our house last year until my wealthy roommate left the house.

Things. Things.

I'm running on low creative energy right now, but at least I have tea. Maybe I should save this for an actual update to the parents, but it's nice to have a little mindsplurge and get out all the loose strands of data crawling through my head. What is already set in stone are the things I'll be confronting my roommates with - the seemingly inconsequential things that set up to a landslide in attitude. I'm sick of feeling like a servile ghost in their home that they only pay a mind to when he inconveniences their living spaces.

But I'm not thinking about that right now. Other things to do. Planning.

I better call my doctor before I forget to do that. And I need to talk to Matt about when to come in to drop off my resume.

And then there's always the dollar store.

Good day, sweet blog. Today's better than the last one.

Solipsism.

Jan. 18th, 2015 04:00 pm
tito: Picture of the main character from the game ICO. (Default)
I am so much more than this. I am more than what I write about.

Just finished my marathon watching of Strip Search, a webcomic reality TV show that Penny Arcade put on a couple years ago. Still love the material, and certain parts of it elicits genuine laughter from me - enough to pull me out from my depressive episodes.

One thing about my mind is that it never turns off. It's a trait that's shared with a character I play online. Part of me envies that trait in others - the ability to just stop thinking critically, switch off and enjoy stupid fun for its own sake. But I am forever an analyst - both of myself and of the content I watch. So then, my thoughts:

I'm not an artist, so the finer technical points of their craft are lost on me, but it's still such a creative boost to see people like myself - creators - doing fully what they want, what they do best, what they love to do - and in that brutal environment, flourishing. Or even just enjoying the ride to its respective ends, their journey given its snapshot, their fifteen minutes. In a way it's a simulation of death - the winners of the competitive challenges sentencing their inmates to trial by fire, with only one winner. It's as much a simulation of the process of death, with all it entails, as anything one can come up with.

For someone who's scared of living, scared of expressing himself in any way that pleases him, it's cathartic to see others going through that simulation - of failure, of acceptance, release, and joy for what they had.

In less than two hours, I'm going to have to perform. I don't have a script. I may as well make it up as I go along. But I may create a framework, and create the first half and improvise the rest. Might be okay, especially if I involve the audience.

Those people. Those autistic people at Author's with Autism who think I have it together, who have no idea about me. I'm charismatic and likeable enough and good with people enough to hide my baggage. Not from people who know me, obviously, not from the people I live with, but the mask I've crafted for myself is good enough to withstand public scrutiny. It's the kind of mask that suffocates your ability to express how fucked up you are - you're unable to say it without a well-meaning smile.

I have to publish something. (No, I don't have to, but--) I have to do it so I can say I have something and that I'm a writer, damn it, I can make something on time, by a deadline. (Augh deadlines.) The Autism's Own Journal (augh, pandering to my own people, augh) has a deadline of January 31st, so that means it might be read by... someone. More of my own people? Goddamnit, I don't want that kind of feedback. I spend so much of my time analyzing other people and the content they create, I want someone to analyze and put their minds to me. But the best I can hope for is something tepid like: "You're a really insightful person." Maybe a nice, poignant three-syllable adjective is the most I can hope for from my audience before they go back to their own navel-gazing fixations.

Look at me, the shit I'm talking about. (Look at me, look at me.) But why not? At least I've got anonymity, still. (Despite publishing this with my username as my given name. That won't bite me in the ass someday, no sir.)
tito: Picture of the main character from the game ICO. (Default)
Five and something years ago, I started this journal alongside another one - rainspirit.

I started blogging when I was fifteen. I really was a teenager. I had skipped grade 9, going through a period that I barely remember. I did so much blogging as opposed to the writing I wished I could be doing, the hard stuff - novels, for one, the thing I'd dreamed of writing.

I'm hard on myself. Always have been. And I'm at a low point as I write this, because I think about blogging and I think about livejournal, and I think about how old-fashioned I feel in this internet age that continues on and on. And I know, I know, at some point I'll look back on this and think, oh, how young I was back then.. But fuck it, I'll be moody and dismal in my own time, thank you future me person.

Because who else am I going to let read this. My parents? I don't know. I invited them into my life before, reading every entry, but I got tired of that. I want some thoughts to myself, thanks. The emails I send to them, personalized and containing information they want to hear about, that's good enough for now.

So what about this? I don't know. I could try my hand at making avatars again. Don't really know how to do that given that I'm still learning how to manipulate this tablet, with the stuttering bluetooth keyboard and the cracked plastic stand it precariously rests upon. I'm learning, and while I'm doing that I try to imagine doing this on tumblr and my mind snaps back like an elastic band. I'm old. I'm getting old at twenty-six years of age, twenty-seven soon, I'm getting older and I never imagined what I'd be like at this age. I don't know what I'll be like when I'm thirty, but I do know I want to be somewhere. I don't want to be this self-loathing, fucking wreck of a human being held back by his neurologically atypical behaviour. I want to be somewhere this year.

I get so goddamn lonely. And I try to hide it even as I squash it in my interpersonal interactions. I cling to people, particularly those I take a shine to, falling in love with them in my own childish adoration, and then when the illusion is shattered, I get moody like a teenager. My little private hellish cycle of trying to maintain an existence while being so utterly isolated from other humans.

I want to be acknowledged and loved. I don't particularly understand the barriers that have held me back from the latter for so long, even though I pretend to. I laugh and joke and say that I just have terrible luck, but I know it's deeper. I'm deeply repressed. I go for women others might consider unconventional - heavier, plainer, stranger - in part because the women I do genuinely find deeply gorgeous are terrifying to me, their beauty terrifies some part of me and makes me feel unworthy. I find almost nothing but ugliness in my own flaccid, impotent form, as much as I struggle to change it.

I don't want to admit the things I feel. And so I plunge into masturbatory fantasies too dark for anyone who's ever known genuine carnal satisfaction. I haven't hurt anyone yet, at least. That's nice to remember. At this point, the most harm I may ever truly do in this world is to myself - though if I go too far, it'll spread to my family as well, if I do something I can't truly recover from. My soul is too gentle to do much worse.

Violence, anger, hate and grief and loneliness. I'm back here again. The holidays were a wonderful reprieve, but I'm back into this messy state again. It's going to take a lot to get me out of it. But at least I'm writing again.

I have some awful-tasting french vanilla ice cream in the freezer, given to me by my roommate. It's horrible and plastic-tasting, but with some maple syrup it could taste pretty decent. Expensive shit, though, and I've already pushed my luck with my parents' financial aid.

Tomorrow I go climb mountains with an old schoolmate that I barely talk to anymore. I have no idea what kind of person she is, though I do remember she used to be part of the anime club in high school. I just finished Ghost in the Shell: Arise, so there's that to talk about, maybe, maybe. But I will have to get to bed.

Guilt, guilt, guilt, remembering the commitments I failed to honour today, no matter how superfluous. Try to push it aside. You'll go to bed at a decent hour tonight, but you'll probably toss and turn and moan and reach for the tablet to seek oblivion. That's what you will probably try to do.

Try again. Tomorrow, try again.

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tito: Picture of the main character from the game ICO. (Default)
Tito MN

January 2015

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