I wrote this one night, 3 years ago, in attempts to fight my self-loathing and self-pity. I still have these feelings on occassion. Since I have quit drinking, I have had them less often but more intense.

 That fucking feeling.
>   Similar to the night I wrote Shrinivas, but less sad, lonely, pathetic,
> and twitchy, and more, self loathing: alcoholic, loser, low self-esteem,
> flakey, neurotic. It is automatic, in concordance with my previous sets
> of coping skills, for me to get all self destructive. I have a serious
> case of the “fuckitz” and want to escape from these feelings of
> inadequacy, shame, ghetto-far-from-fabulous, guilty, self blaming,
> undeserving, mutant, is there anyone who understands me ,no, no, it’s
> more like… is there even any understanding of me possible , even from
> myself?….. sort of mood.
>   I feel so comfortably out of place I cannot bare the thought of myself.
> Oh yes, I can see it now, the fucking Prozac Pamphlet “Do you feel like
> you don’t belong?” “ Do you do you withdraw in crowds?” If that is all
> it were, I would be contented surfing my cyclic moods, rejoice at the
> representation of my people in the television ads, and search the
> greater So Cal area for ,at last, one other person who suffers from this
> “depression“. No, depression, and meds for such, are just the fucking
> icing on the chocolate frosty cupcake of my life. I have searched from
> homelessness to self actualization, sex, drugs, and rock and roll,
> academia, gurus, goals, religion, relationships, and oh those just
> causes, but I never seem to shake that feeling of being alien. Even when
> it works for good.
>   At least when I am Shrinivas I can find the fucking light in a cool
> breeze, the philosophies behind my aching, and hope for a better day.
> Sometimes, sad introspection creates magic.
>   But this, this fucking feeling is second only to severe frustration on
> the “shoot myself in the head” scale. The funny thing is that I would
> never shoot myself in the fucking head. Having the barrel of a gun in my
> mouth is too tactile. I would then be able to have actuality about
> something, cold steel fear would snap me the fuck out of it. No wonder I
> used to act on suicidal tendency, it was social self medication.
>   Anyone suicidal, who has ever been busted being so, knows to Never utter
> the word, or type it, even in a rambling state. We just learn to discuss
> it in terms of a scale “how suicidal are you feeling?” Because, people
> who have ever wanted to escape through death are forever stigmatized. My
> coping skill, even of whittled to an abstract thought process, is to be
> forever denied. It is the nature of the beast. The dirty little secret
> that, when fed silence, breeds itself stronger.
>   I would never even think about thinking of actually killing myself at
> this point in my spiritual freedom. So to answer that question, “How
> suicidal am I feeling today?’ On a scale of one to ten, I‘ll take (2). I
> don’t even have the fucking focus to deal with a fucking paper cut (3),
> let alone all the planning and distraught painful angry energy and
> sadness it takes to tearfully wash down bottles of pills with cheap
> merlot. (8), Nor am I desperate enough to drink my shampoo (9) or
> seriously hysterical enough to jump in front of a moving machine (10)No,
> Today, I am not self determined enough to catch myself on fire, while
> jumping from the 13th floor, full of heroine and lighter fluid. ( 12)
>   No, today I am too self aware to drink myself into oblivious blackouts
> because today would be the day I would fall from the roof and break my
> arm. Today, I am too proud of my pussy to hoar myself, no, she would not
> let me enjoy it without being motivated to cum the way she likes it.
> Today, I am too settled with my global views of gender to objectify some
> lucky bastard into fucking me so I could feel distant enough to steal
> his wallet. Today, each and every one of my friends would have a special
> way of pissing me off, and I love them too much to be
> clingy-angry-monster. Today, I feel too invested in my education, job,
> and goals, to just split out of town and spend all my money.
>   No, today I just have that feeling, that fucking feeling. That little
> restless demon that brews my shifty funk.
>   That feeling that makes me want to find a shrink, a qualified level
> headed a therapist that has a fucking clue about the street, ideally a,
> feminist, queer, fetish shrink, with a soft spot for a bit of
> existential ism and anarchy……. but at a minimum, one that doesn’t’ wear
> sweater sets, think that AA is the best answer for anyone who does
> stupid things when they drink and still wants to drink, talk to me about
> Jesus, try to role play with teddy bears, crush on me, tell me their
> problems, give me money, miss more appointments than I do, answer the
> phone during a session, die, get a ‘real’ job, tell me that People
> Magazine recognizes gay couples so things are moving up for me, or
> anything else that
>   helps me to realize that I just missed it……being completely understood.
>   Once again.
>   With a service charge.
>   That feeling, that fucking feeling, is everything that makes life worth
> living, and the one thing that wants to erase me. When it’s good it keep
> me alive, when its bad I just have to fucking cope.
>   As Luscious Jackson has said:
>   You come and get me when I’m all alone
>   On the corner, just skin and bone
>   Fever in and fever out
>   You’re the swinger who brings me doubt
>   You love me now, but you’ll hate me soon
>   In the light of a dark room
>   Smiling faces always turn away
>   You’re the kind who likes to play
>   Cool Cool deep blue, you’re the shine on my shoes
>   I give it up because its up to you
>   Mood Swing I can’t let you in
>   You bring me up and bring me down
>   Mood swing I can’t give in to your
>   Subtle wiles and your endless miles
>   You stare me down how you scare me
>   But my eyes are open wide
>   And I will rise to fight you
>   My delight won’t be denied
>   If song lyrics are the closest I can get to feeling normal today, then I
> guess I have no friend in Jesus.
>   Sometimes, I just have that feeling, that fucking feeling. I did today.
>   9 pm and now what my little demon
>
>   Call my best friend? No, she is rightfully mad at me right now.
>   Go home? No, because my fucking ‘roomie’ waited until her dead line of
> today to complete her end of a bargain, she will be a tornado through
> the house until midnight.
>   I could easily shift from that feeling to an even worse one.
>   Go to the gym? All my shit is at home.
>   Art? Again, stuff at home.
>   Go to OC? Nobody called me back, probably because I am a flake.
>   Think about my volunteer gigs? No, I dropped the ball on that one too
> and I will be punished publicly.
>   The ladies? No, keep that clean of drama.
>   Speaking of drama, I could focus on that. It seems that my life is
> naturally full of it. Break up, infection, poor performance, academic
> disillusionment. I hate having to focus that type of attention on
> myself, even when I am the only one with me.
>   The world can watch me shit via internet and I would ask to get paid.
> But when I feel vulnerable, I want to avoid dealing with it because I
> don’t know how. I feel that I am so inherently, emotionally fluid, who
> knows which emotions deserve attention.
>   Maybe I can feel guilty for making the decision to go to the hospital,
> eat ice cream and sleep in the sunshine instead of finishing my math
> project, or driving to San Diego.
>   Avoid Diana, and be embarrassed when I go back to class. That does not
> work.
>   Maybe I can distance myself from my most recently acquired friends so at
> least they won’t be affected by how crazy I am.
>   I guess the closest thing to death I will reach tonight is to jerk off
> and go to sleep.

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