I'm not a particularly organised person. That is, while I try to keep things in order and have some sort of structure with my life and the things I do, it is often unsuccessful. And, now that I'm 20 years old I kind of really hoped that I would have it all figured out. You know. Myself. I also secretly hope that other people my age are just as baffled about these things as I am because I'm constantly afraid of falling behind in this weird imaginary race I have against time. It's completely irrational but I've seen a random strand of grey hair on my head the other day so maybe that's what continues to cloud my judgement.
Don't get me wrong. I'm trying really hard to be an organised person. I've watched youtube videos of people organising things (that just made me feel like an inadequate person compared to these extremely organised youtube vloggers), I've read those weird wiki-how articles that for some reason always have accompanying visuals despite the subject matter being super mundane (this is not a complaint, I love the visuals). But I just end up being riddled with dozens of post it notes and pages of journals with the phrase "to do" with unticked boxes underneath. And the fact that there are dozens of them serve as a tangible reminder of the things I haven't accomplished. So what do I do now? I don't want to make another list because then it will just add onto the file of the things I haven't done. Maybe I should write a blog post about it. That definitely solves things.
Saturday 3 October 2015
Tuesday 23 June 2015
Not emotionally sound (a kind of self analysis).
Most of the time, especially at this point in time, I feel like something is wrong with me. Which is both weird and not at all unusual for a person to think. Generally I see people and think they're having a normal, super fun exciting life but that's just an assumption I make based on what I see of those people. Like they could have a mini zoo of a taxidermy collection in their basement that they like to gaze broodingly at during the night while they sip some sort of dark liquor from a crystal glass-- WE WILL NEVER KNOW.
I want to say that I understand how everyone doesn't feel quite right all the time, but that's a thing that I also don't know. We see so much in films and the media and whatever minimalistic conceptual art installation in some contemporary museum that people have a sense of dysfunction. And other people who consume this content will look at these things and relate to them with a deep exhale of "Ahh, yes, the feeling of isolation and anxiety. Here's $10,000 I want that on my wall." And that's totally fine. If you have the money and you enjoy art that's cool I feel like I might offend some people.
Recently I've observed something about myself. While I had an uncomfortable talk with another person. I realise that I don't really know how to convey emotion in a completely sincere and honest way. I can't show this person that I care about them or myself. I'm not entirely sure how I feel.
I care about what people think. I care about what I think (obviously, I have this blog and many self-involved stories to prove that). But is that really caring about another person? As I'm writing right now I'm thinking of the people who might read this (and my other posts) and what they'll think about me as a person. Is this post too self involved?
Overall writing this feels kind of like an exhale as well, I guess. A smaller exhale, like a little huff after running after your bus but you missed it so you sigh in disappointment but there's another one in 3 minutes so it's not that bad. Not worth $10,000.
I want to say that I understand how everyone doesn't feel quite right all the time, but that's a thing that I also don't know. We see so much in films and the media and whatever minimalistic conceptual art installation in some contemporary museum that people have a sense of dysfunction. And other people who consume this content will look at these things and relate to them with a deep exhale of "Ahh, yes, the feeling of isolation and anxiety. Here's $10,000 I want that on my wall." And that's totally fine. If you have the money and you enjoy art that's cool I feel like I might offend some people.
Recently I've observed something about myself. While I had an uncomfortable talk with another person. I realise that I don't really know how to convey emotion in a completely sincere and honest way. I can't show this person that I care about them or myself. I'm not entirely sure how I feel.
I care about what people think. I care about what I think (obviously, I have this blog and many self-involved stories to prove that). But is that really caring about another person? As I'm writing right now I'm thinking of the people who might read this (and my other posts) and what they'll think about me as a person. Is this post too self involved?
Overall writing this feels kind of like an exhale as well, I guess. A smaller exhale, like a little huff after running after your bus but you missed it so you sigh in disappointment but there's another one in 3 minutes so it's not that bad. Not worth $10,000.
Thursday 16 April 2015
It's been that long (Let me unload everything in this on post).
Hello again. Wow this is getting kind of repetitive. I haven't really written anything in a while-- not because I've been particularly busy or chasing my dreams in a movie-montage- scenario (seriously how cool would that be thought, right? Super cool.)
It's because I forgot. Like, I've literally just forgotten about this blog that I wrote a bunch of dumb and sometimes introspective-- mostly existential-level of idiocy. Though I don't really regret having a blog because it's good to keep a record of thoughts on things and maybe someone will stumble across it while doing a quick google search for dragon pictures and read about this other person struggling with their laptop charger. Also, to read back at what I've written and cringe/cry/laugh at how absurd I sounded a little bit ago.
I don't promise to write everyday or anything but it feels nice to be writing in here again and that this space is still a thing. It's pretty cool.
How did I use to sign out? PEACE. DROP THE MIC.
Still not cool enough to pull that off. Nothing much changed.
It's because I forgot. Like, I've literally just forgotten about this blog that I wrote a bunch of dumb and sometimes introspective-- mostly existential-level of idiocy. Though I don't really regret having a blog because it's good to keep a record of thoughts on things and maybe someone will stumble across it while doing a quick google search for dragon pictures and read about this other person struggling with their laptop charger. Also, to read back at what I've written and cringe/cry/laugh at how absurd I sounded a little bit ago.
I don't promise to write everyday or anything but it feels nice to be writing in here again and that this space is still a thing. It's pretty cool.
How did I use to sign out? PEACE. DROP THE MIC.
Still not cool enough to pull that off. Nothing much changed.
Thursday 5 June 2014
Orange is The New Black is here again. (and no one will hear from me for the next couple of days.)
I watch a lot of television. A lot. Like. So much. It's pretty crazy. Yet it's not really a unique or unusual trait-- especially now with the whole streaming/on demand thing being available ("how did people live before this stuff?" I've asked my cavemen ancestors in my head. I'm really stupid in my head.)
Alas my brother and I decided we should have a Netflix subscription and a whole new world of possibilities were opened, like discovering another universe too beautiful and complex for my tiny mind to even comprehend.
But they do things so differently. As if they are another species so advanced and so much more evolved than us mere earthlings. They release a whole season in one go. Which is why now I'm waiting for the next season of Orange Is The New Black and seriously contemplating whether I should watch the whole thing or admit mortality and breathe. While Netflix is a beautiful website which has seduced us, is it really right to give up the power and let us decide for ourselves how to watch a whole season? It's like you're just standing on the street and someone randomly comes up to you with your income for the next year.
What now?
(logically you should go to the bank)
Do I spend everything?
(the bank)
Or stash is somewhere secretly in my house?
(bank)
Like... under my pillows.
(No. Bank.)
That's a pretty accurate metaphor. Except instead of money, they hand you a 13 hour long tv series.
Alas my brother and I decided we should have a Netflix subscription and a whole new world of possibilities were opened, like discovering another universe too beautiful and complex for my tiny mind to even comprehend.
But they do things so differently. As if they are another species so advanced and so much more evolved than us mere earthlings. They release a whole season in one go. Which is why now I'm waiting for the next season of Orange Is The New Black and seriously contemplating whether I should watch the whole thing or admit mortality and breathe. While Netflix is a beautiful website which has seduced us, is it really right to give up the power and let us decide for ourselves how to watch a whole season? It's like you're just standing on the street and someone randomly comes up to you with your income for the next year.
What now?
(logically you should go to the bank)
Do I spend everything?
(the bank)
Or stash is somewhere secretly in my house?
(bank)
Like... under my pillows.
(No. Bank.)
That's a pretty accurate metaphor. Except instead of money, they hand you a 13 hour long tv series.
Tuesday 22 April 2014
Weird human crisis (I'm having a crisis)
As the title of this post suggests, I'm having a crisis. I mean, it's a pretty common thing for human beings to have these existential crises right? Like "what is the meaning of life" "are we a part of reality or simply a figment of Leonardo DiCaprio's imaginations"? Pretty common.
And what does one do when they have said crisis? Do they seek out for meaning or stand in a public space throwing copies "Inception" DVDs on random passerbys? No, they write about it in their blog.
While I continue to feel uncomfortable to write or speak about anything genuine or sincere because feelings are just inherently disgusting and painful and gross, I can't help but want to be sincere and honest about this crisis. I'm often jealous of people who seem that have things together, walking around like the world isn't a vast part of an ever extending galaxy, which in itself is just one of the infinite amount of possible galaxies in the universe. How do people not just think about this all the time? Sometimes I get the urge to grab random people on the shoulders and ask "HOW ARE YOU OK WITH THIS?"
Though I know the answer. Or the maybe possible answer on why people don't just have such crises at any given moment or time. It's because there's other things to worry about. They have actual things to do that occupies their minds.
So instead of having an existential crisis, I decided to think about other things. Like the future and the rest of my life. This terrified me further and lead to a different type of crisis. What am I going to do? I don't have it together. Does everyone else know what they want to do for the rest of their lives? How do you find out? Did everyone secretly get instructions through a colourful leaflet that tells them what their goal is? At least I'm not thinking about the universe anymore. But this still sucks.
And what does one do when they have said crisis? Do they seek out for meaning or stand in a public space throwing copies "Inception" DVDs on random passerbys? No, they write about it in their blog.
While I continue to feel uncomfortable to write or speak about anything genuine or sincere because feelings are just inherently disgusting and painful and gross, I can't help but want to be sincere and honest about this crisis. I'm often jealous of people who seem that have things together, walking around like the world isn't a vast part of an ever extending galaxy, which in itself is just one of the infinite amount of possible galaxies in the universe. How do people not just think about this all the time? Sometimes I get the urge to grab random people on the shoulders and ask "HOW ARE YOU OK WITH THIS?"
Though I know the answer. Or the maybe possible answer on why people don't just have such crises at any given moment or time. It's because there's other things to worry about. They have actual things to do that occupies their minds.
So instead of having an existential crisis, I decided to think about other things. Like the future and the rest of my life. This terrified me further and lead to a different type of crisis. What am I going to do? I don't have it together. Does everyone else know what they want to do for the rest of their lives? How do you find out? Did everyone secretly get instructions through a colourful leaflet that tells them what their goal is? At least I'm not thinking about the universe anymore. But this still sucks.
Saturday 8 February 2014
I got a new thing. (this got more dramatic than intended)
Remember that time I wrote a poem about my laptop and its whirring sounds of death? Or that one where it just died and I briefly reevaluated my life and how we as a human race will begin to regress due to the internet? Yeah, me neither. It's okay.
I finally did it today. I replaced me laptop. Sure, I'll admit, there was a tingling sense of guilt when I took the new one out of the box and placed it next to the old one (also the fact that I distinguished between them by "new" and "old"-- Sorry old one). Like that video I saw on youtube where this couple got a new kitten and their current cat looked at them with glazed eyes of betrayal and hurt. My laptop looked at me with equal amounts of betrayal and hurt. I just got this thing, a newer and thinner and shinier thing that will do things that my old laptop won't do (it has infinitely better specs... look at that battery life uheruhreuheruir)
I think the main issue here is not that I'm betraying my old laptop but the fact that I'm ridiculously sentimental about everything. Seriously. When I finished a notebook I made an emotional video montage about it. In slow motion. With a song in the background. True story.
Anyways I'll miss the old laptop and we had some great times together. But now I'm mostly thinking about how much of a bitch it's going to be to transfer all my files across.
I finally did it today. I replaced me laptop. Sure, I'll admit, there was a tingling sense of guilt when I took the new one out of the box and placed it next to the old one (also the fact that I distinguished between them by "new" and "old"-- Sorry old one). Like that video I saw on youtube where this couple got a new kitten and their current cat looked at them with glazed eyes of betrayal and hurt. My laptop looked at me with equal amounts of betrayal and hurt. I just got this thing, a newer and thinner and shinier thing that will do things that my old laptop won't do (it has infinitely better specs... look at that battery life uheruhreuheruir)
I think the main issue here is not that I'm betraying my old laptop but the fact that I'm ridiculously sentimental about everything. Seriously. When I finished a notebook I made an emotional video montage about it. In slow motion. With a song in the background. True story.
Anyways I'll miss the old laptop and we had some great times together. But now I'm mostly thinking about how much of a bitch it's going to be to transfer all my files across.
Sunday 5 January 2014
Thinking thoughts in my brain (I can't sleep).
Hello again,
Is it weird to start addressing my blog as a living entity? Not that I do it in real life, it's weird enough already through text. What if the blog starts talking back and forming it's own thoughts, gaining intelligence through the internet and everything I've inputted here and then just crawls out of the screen and start rapidly ranting to me about how I've been spewing nonsense for years and now it's my turn to listen to my own blog. I don't know, it may not be a bad thing. What if they have something interesting to say. But am I talking to my blog now? WHAT IS REALITY.
In other news I'm on chapter 40 of Bukowski's 'Factotum' and I just cannot bring myself to finish it. Not in a good I-don't-want-this-book-to-end-it's-perfect-[Mockingjay whistle]-way. It's just so disappointing because the first book I ever read by him ('Ham on Rye') was so good and perfect and this, quite frankly, just seems like a shitty brag/fantasy of a pervert who is surrounded by really superficially described as disgusting women that all want to sleep with him.
(I'm sorry if you like that book… I mean, if you do, please feel free to tell me why.)
(Maybe I'll finish it and have a different opinion)
(open mindedness right?)
(riuhregouhgsiytreowhyegrh)
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