My utter lack of momentum remains a complete mystery to me. These days, I spend hours and hours laying upside down on the huge floral couch on the main floor of the cathouse, drifting in and out of consciousness, munching on chocolate chip cookies and doughnuts that other people have mashed into being. Crossword puzzles and starting even more books that will probably never be finished.
I constantly acquire new fears, absorbing them from everyone around me. I can thank my wife for my sudden claustrophobia and immediate urge to urinate every time I step into an elevator. I think the only fear that's really mine is the fear of conclusion. I begin things left and right, here and there, books by Oscar Wao and F. Scott, my own novel, I suppose. Workout routines. I start relationships with practically everyone I meet. You know, obnoxiously prolonged eye contact and new Rock and Republic jeans. These things never find culmination. I'm afraid to follow through because I know myself. I understand that I'll be disappointed.
It's why this college-life-crisis comes so easily to me. I excel at backing out, lying. Now that everything's solidifying, it's nothing I want. Why would I ever want to commit myself to 7 additional years of school when I've longed to escape for the past couple of months? What I want is to be George Saunders, or not George Saunders per se (because his satire is exhausting after just a few pages), but someone George Saunders-esque. I want to drop the fuck out of school and work in the mines, join the army, train myself as a barista (of course none of these would last a year). My expectations for myself are so high, but all they continue to do is limit me from what I want to do: nothing. I want to bake souffles and play with Charlie Katdinsky.
I want to be the only one for miles and miles.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
You only get what you give.
