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Nov. 10th, 2009

(no subject)


Omaha has a large population of ‘lonely guys’ that come out of the woodwork on weekend nights, when they feel their loneliness most keenly. One can spot a ‘lonely guy’ in any given café (with any luck, you’ll spot at least three, but rarely will you see more than a dozen in a single closed area,) sitting alone, reading a book and sipping coffee—waiting for someone to come up and talk to them, perhaps? One can see them eating in dismal solitude at a restaurant—hoping a ‘lonely woman’ might approach them, perhaps? One can see the pain in their eyes when they look over at you, stopped at the stop light—hoping you might roll down your window, and invite them over for dinner, perhaps?

When you fail to approach and engage a ‘lonely guy’, you have, in essence, walked by a dying homeless man on the street (and instead of lending a helping hand, you put your handkerchief over your nose and hurriedly walk away, in disgust)—you have failed to put a few coins in the bucket as you pass a bell ringing Salvation Army Santa Claus (and instead of feeling bad, you revel in your greedy filth and squalor)—any and all other ungainly acts that come to mind can be compared to the forsaking of the ‘lonely guy.’ Let Christ compel you, and for the love of God, engage the lonely man.

Now, madam or monsieur, you must first understand (if you seek to comprehend the psyche of the ‘lonely guy’) that he does not chose to be lonely. You may ask yourself, “Why does not the ‘lonely guy’ go forth and plant the seeds of friendship that he may reap a crop of friendship in due time?” Well it’s not that simple for the ‘lonely guy.’ The ‘lonely guy’ is a laconic, vapid pussyfooter; for the ‘lonely guy,’ making friends is very difficult. But alas! We shall cover it more in depth over the course of my book.

I mean, if he could just go out and make friends, of course he would. But alas! You, with your youthful vigor and gregarious manner, know not yet the difficulties in such endeavors for the lost, reticent soul that drifts—rootless—through the seas of iniquity. Perhaps someday, you will experience what it means to be on the outside, looking in. But alas! You reside yet in the womb of your mother’s comfort, and know not the suffering in the prosaic life of the multitudes.

Now, the first problem is that the ‘lonely guy’ himself is unapproachable. At a cursory glance, he appears uncaring, unfriendly, and exudes apparent ambivalence. This is such a sad, sad paradox. Consider that the ‘lonely guy’ goes to the café or restaurant, ostensibly, for the purpose of getting food or a drink, but in reality he is hoping for someone to approach him, and start a conversation. But the endeavor is doomed from the start, because the ‘lonely guy’ looks unapproachable and unfriendly, and his apparent confidence betrays a false nature of happiness—when in fact, his one hope in life is that someone will approach him (which is highly unlikely, due to his reticent expression and unfriendly nature.)

Now, don’t despair, all you ‘lonely guys’ out there! There are some pragmatic steps that can be taken to increase a person’s approachability (however you must be careful how you go about it, because if done the wrong way it can easily add to your outward confident appearance and make you even more unapproachable.) It’s a delicate balance—the more feckless and pathetic you look, the more obvious your lonely and despondent nature is to passer-bys; but the more clean-cut and outwardly confident you appear (thus making you approachable,) the less people can discern your lonely nature (so they are actually less prone to approach you!)

Basically, try not to appear stoic, and hopefully an increased range of emotional expression will increase your approachability. You want to appear clean-cut, nice, and (if possible) cute. You never want to appear manly or sexy, in any form. And worst of all is to appear confident/superior (don’t dress too nicely—don’t wear clothes that are too expensive.) You want your clothes to say, “Hey! I’m a nice guy, come talk to me (I’m kind of shy!)” Not, “Check me out, mofo’, I’m a badass bro.’” No, never that.

I shall now describe a ‘lonely guy’, so that the reader madam or monsieur may better understand that the ‘lonely guy’, in his modern form (he has been around since the dawn of human civilization,) is utterly unapproachable:

This ‘lonely guy’ is sitting with his laptop at a table for two in a little café on a busy stretch of road downtown—alone. Ostensibly, he came to the café to drink coffee and use the internet—but the fact that he chose such an incredibly busy area reveals to the observer that he has ulterior motives: he secretly hopes that someone, anyone, will engage him in conversation (be his friend.) Now, don’t expect to go around town and be able to pick out every single ‘lonely guy’—it takes a keen eye to pick them out as quickly and efficiently as I can.

This ‘lonely guy’ appears to be in his thirties, and he either smokes and drinks heavily, or works a construction-type manual labor job, because his skin has the dull, leathery tone which is indicative of over-exposure to some sort of skin damaging chemical. At a cursory glance, the casual observer would deem him unapproachable because of his older age, but when one also takes into account his stoic and laconic expression of ambivalence, the observer now realizes that it is physically impossible to engage this person in conversation. Apparently, not only does he not want to talk to you, but if you inconvenience him with your speech, he might get angry (he looks rather grumpy and irritable.)

This is where most people go wrong. You simply cannot let the ‘lonely guys’ reticent and laconic nature deter you from engaging him: you must approach him at all costs. That’s the whole reason he is sitting there: waiting for you to come talk to him. The poor guy has nothing in the world to live for; his whole life is a slow, somber struggle to waste time and try to retain some semblance of sanity (because loneliness is debilitating; it gnaws at the edges of one’s mind, and tears one’s psyche to dismal shreds.) See more about the devastating effects of loneliness here.

You must ignore whatever the ‘lonely guy’ may look like, and approach him as though he is your brother or uncle or something. I make it a goal to talk to three ‘lonely guys’ per day; why don’t you go out, right now, and talk to your very first ‘lonely guy’! Go out and touch a 'lonely guy', because we're going to change the world, one ‘lonely guy’ at a time!

 

(no subject)


An old, lonely woman is sitting alone sipping coffee in a cafe—staring longingly at the empty seat across from her. She takes her hand off the white purse sitting beside her, brings her hand slowly up to her lips and delicately bites the very end of her thumb. She closes her eyes momentarily, and shakes her head no, as if she is denying her loss.

As she opens her eyes, I can see that they are red; a lone tear etches down her cheek, rests on the edge of her jaw line and then drops onto her white blouse. Holding her hands together in her lap, she bows her head and her lips move as she prays silently. Taking a long, deep breathe, she looks up and stares blankly out the window. After taking her red lipstick out of her purse and applying it, she then takes a handkerchief and dabs it against her lips. Varicose veins map her legs.

(no subject)


I feel cold. My entire chest area is pulsating with sadness. A pressure is welling up behind my eyes; a few tears etch down my cheeks, momentarily pause at the edge of my jaw line and then drip onto the collar of my shirt.

I wish someone would hold me; It’s been a long time since I have felt the security and comfort of trusting another person. I spent years without physical contact with another person, so that now it makes me uneasy to let others into that intimate zone within a few feet of my body. But that perfectly fine; it’s not like I really need someone to touch me, to give me hugs and kisses and let me rest my head on their lap. I mean really, it’s not as if I feel like a young child who has lost his mother. Actually, that is how I feel. I feel like I have lost my mother. I lost my family. I have no friends. Everyone in the workplace either thinks I’m weird or flat out hates me—and I can’t really blame them; I am very stand-offish about meeting new people, and it comes off as though I am some type of freak.

Usually I can tolerate being alone. But when I’m sick—a time when a loved one is supposed to nurse, take care of, comfort—I feel loneliness all the most acutely. I will do whatever it takes to not be alone tonight.

I feel like I carry the entire weight of the world on my shoulders. I am really sad and alone. I’m cold; my muscles ache; I feel so lost, so rootless. My life is ungrounded; my mind is unstable. The world is scary; the people I come into contact with are unsettling.

I’m suffering from a derangement of the senses—and it’s very disquieting. Rummaging through the sentiments that flutter through my mind only serves to exacerbate the disarray of my senses.

On the other hand, my life is been going very well lately. I am actually not lonely at all; I have gained a few good friends, and I am quite content. The loneliness that I feel is strictly perceived loneliness (a result of my prior lifestyle of solitude.) Life is just great. Great, great; very wonderful (great indeed—so very great; wonderfully great!)

Nov. 3rd, 2009

(no subject)


 

Life can be so great; sometimes I feel so happy I can’t stop smiling, and sometimes I feel so giddy I can’t stop laughing. Life can be so tough; sometimes dying seems easier than living. Oh, life isn’t so bad: it’s just that the people can sometimes make it frustrating—and confusion can sometimes lead to despair, lead to the point where I really don’t care.

Oh, I’ve seen people cry—cry out that they would like to die—and when I heard those people, all I could do was let out a drawn out sigh. They asked me: why—why has my life gone awry? Why, with every moment that passes by, does my soul shrivel up and dry? I have no reply.

I like to drinkwith the upmost enjoymentout of a white coffee mug that I got for free, green tea, that most antioxidant rich and mood-enhancing brew which makes me oh-so happy. I like toostensibly, for the health benefits, but with ulterior motives of endorphins and dopaminewear out my body with exercise at the gym, or out in nature, or running through the city, or any other such place that is conducive to movement of my limbs. 

Life can be so tough; sometimes dying seems easier than living. Life can be so great; sometimes I feel so happy I can’t stop smiling, and other times I feel so giddy I can’t stop laughing. Life isn’t so bad: it’s just that the people can sometimes make it frustrating—but without those people, life feels empty.

Nov. 2nd, 2009

(no subject)


 

The other day I was in Africa. I was walking through a herd of antelope: it was near dusk, and my every footstep was deliberate and calm; birds were flying through the air around me, gusts of wind were whipping locks of my long dark hair across my face, the tall Savannah grass was swaying like waves of an ocean. Every miniscule movement of every organism I was able to sense: the birds pruning their nests made the most delicate rustling noises—the insects underneath the ground made soft squirming sounds—the antelopes’ chewing of grass was distinctly audible as though I had my ear right by their mouths. I started dancing—a slow, sensual dance.

I took off all my clothes, and the animals directed their gaze to my young, supple body. The sinewy flesh of my muscles writhed beneath my taunt skin, the veins bulged from my arms and chest and abs. All the animals of the Savannah started to move with the rhythm of my beat. My limbs felt like fire, a strong desire burned within me, my manhood was erect. Slowly, smoothly, I danced in circles around a tree.

The herd of antelope formed a circle around me; they started snorting and digging into the ground with their hooves. They were so excited by my awesome moves; my fancy-pants moves put them into a crazy antelope trance. I closed my eyes—and as I did so, all of time and space boiled through a nexus in my mind. All time and power were now under my control—I had supreme knowledge of the universe. But it was too much to handle! My sanity started to spiral out of control; one moment I was completely sane, and the next I was crazy; then I was a tad bit crazy, but mostly sane; then I was sort of sane, but mostly out of my mind. And then I blacked out.

…When I awoke, I was in China—lying naked in the middle of a busy village. There were no cars or planes or buses or anything mechanical whatsoever (there were only rickety huts and briskly walking Chinamen.) I could tell that this was Ancient China, and these were Ancient Chinamen. I noticed that they all had antelope-size horns jutting from their foreheads—and as I looked into their eyes, I noticed a demonic hue of red that gave me the goose-flesh all over my body. When the Chinamen smiled, they revealed a mouthful of sharp fangs. It was then that I noticed their long tails ending with a point like an arrowhead.

Ancient Demonic Chinamen I said to myself, as I stood up from my prone position on the dirt. The most wretched of all creatures in the Universe; they wantonly kill and maim and destroy, and pillage and rape and kill. But they all have day jobs, and a good work ethic. As I strut through the streets of Ancient Demonic China, a smooth techno beat started playing—and I couldn’t help but to sensually dance to the rhythm. Suddenly, a dog came out of nowhere and licked my naked leg: his name was Lou (he became my lifelong companion, never leaving my side no matter how dangerous our situation.)

Picking up Lou like a delicate little baby (he was weary from lack of sleep and water,) I walked all over town, trying to find a boat hardy enough to carry both Lou and I through the violent chasms of time and space, so that I could reunite with my beloved herd of antelope and live the rest of my days in wonderful antelope serenity.

After searching for days and days on end, we finally gave up our search for a boat and wandered into a small Demonic Pub near the docks. As we entered, a little Demonic China Child came over and asked: “Hello! I hear you are looking for a boat—not just any boat, but a vessel of epic proportions with the fortitude to endure the violent forces of travel through time and space. You are in luck! I have just the boat you have been looking for; please follow me into the backroom of our pub, and be prepared to pass a series of tests to prove you are worthy.”

He was such a cute, innocent child that I could not help but to trust him—to my own undoing. When we entered into the backroom—a dark, musty room filled with wafting smoke and putrid piles of insect feces—ten thousand surviving rare Demonic Beetles disengaged from their hidden positions in the shadows of the ceiling rafters and attached themselves, painfully, to my naked flesh. The young Demonic China Child laughed a demented, evil laugh, and ran out of the room shrieking and waving his hands through the air in delight. After a moment of hesitation, I gathered my strength, and flexing my muscles like a bodybuilder all the beetles exploded from sheer disbelief at my awesome physique. Then, I did a naked sensual dance through the gooey remains of beetle corpses.

 

(no subject)


It’s morning—and a supremely beautiful one at that. I feel as though I have finally resigned myself to my fate: I have accepted who I am and am at peace with myself. For years I have strove to become something better, to accomplish great things—but it was all in vain, because none of that made me happy. But now I realize, I can be supremely happy with who I am (that doesn’t mean I can’t do some self-improvement/self-help from time to time, but I can’t stress myself out over it.)

Nov. 1st, 2009

(no subject)

The other day I was in Africa. I walked through a herd of gazelle: it was near dusk, and my every footstep was deliberate and calm; birds flew through the air around me, gusts of wind whipped locks of my long dark hair across my face, the tall Savannah grass swayed like waves of an ocean. Every miniscule movement of every organism I was able to sense: the birds pruning their nests made the most delicate rustling noises—the insects underneath the ground made soft squirming sounds—the gazelles’ chewing of grass was distinctly audible as though I had my ear right by their mouths. I started dancing—a slow, sensual dance. I took off all my clothes, and the animals directed their gaze to my young, supple body. The sinewy flesh of my muscles writhed beneath my taunt skin, the veins bulged from my arms and chest and abs. All the animals of the Savannah started to move with the rhythm of my beat. My manhood was erect—my limbs felt like fire, a strong desire burned within me. Slowly, smoothly, I enticed a young female gazelle. I entered into her, and five humps later I climaxed—and as I did so, all of time and space boiled through a nexus in my mind. All time and power were now under my control—I had supreme knowledge of the universe.

Every night I have the most grotesque, disturbing dreams. I dream in color: various hues of scarlet red. The dreams involve death. I have a rich imagination; I am a creative person by nature.

Loneliness has been described as the sure cure for vanity. I never get lonely; I don’t need anyone or anything—by nature I kill, and by killing I sustain nature. I desperately grip onto what sanity is left in my mind: the tighter I grip, the more it slips away; the more I try to remember, the faster my memories fade away; the more I try to find a sense of stability, the more uneven the ground becomes.

Do you control your own destiny? I know I control mine. I am constantly breaking the molds of my sanity and forming myself into a new person; I take on characteristics that I see in others and use them for my own purposes—in this way my mind is an ever-evolving organism, taking in raw sensory data and altering my personality accordingly. I can be any person in any situation at any time.

I don’t know what it’s like to smile. I know how to activate the zygomatic major muscles of my face to feign the proper smile for the occasion, but I don't smile out of my own happiness.

Paranoid delusions


So I went to knock on my friend’s dorm room (her name is Vanessa) to ask if she could give me a ride to class in about an hour, and as I knocked on her door she said: “I’m getting dressed, Liz.” She obviously thought I was ‘Liz,’ and her tone of voice led me to believe that she had just talked to ‘Liz’ over text and she was a bit peeved that Liz came over so soon after she had just told her that she had to get dressed. So, I awkwardly walked away and decided to wait about half an hour to come back.

Half an hour later, I knock on the door quietly and hear only silence in return. Darn, I think to myself. I guess she already got dressed and left with ‘Liz.’ I knocked again, a little bit louder this time. No reply. Once more, I knock—this time loudly. A female voice answers: “Who is it?” It is a female voice, but I can tell that it isn’t Vanessa’s voice: it must be ‘Liz.’

“I’m looking for Vanessa,” I replied.

“She isn’t here; she went to church,” the female voice said. By this time I am absolutely certain that the person speaking is Liz.

“Okay, thanks a lot,” I replied. Flabbergasted, I stand there for a moment, and then walk away chuckling. Both Vanessa and Liz were obviously in the room, and from the time they heard me knocking they waited in silence hoping I would go away. But after I kept knocking, Vanessa probably whispered to Liz, telling her to speak through the door and tell me that she had left for church. Give me a break, Vanessa’s car is still in the parking lot; I really doubt she went to church. And if she did go to church, why would Liz stay in her dorm room? Liz has her own dorm room: she would have no need to stay in Vanessa’s room.

I can’t wait until next week; I am totally going to grill Vanessa, asking her how church was, where it took place, who she went with, if she often let’s people stay in her dorm room for no apparent reason while she goes to church. Then I will come straight out and ask her if she was in the room.

That was a very disheartening experience, but I have learned from it that I needn’t let other people bother me: they are all insane.

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