It doesn’t matter.

Posted: November 11, 2010 in transliteration

I’m not feeling well today, so naturally, I find myself hoping that I’m dying. Of course, I know this is far from true, so it is not naturally hope. Clearly, if I actually wanted to die, I’d be a little more proactive on the topic, so I must just be stating all of this for attention now. Ironically, people don’t tend to pay much attention to idle threats of suicide, and let’s face it, we’ve all jumped to that conclusion about my current rambling and have hence zoned out. Yes, myself included. I don’t want to hear it either.

If I could interject now: We’re wrong. I am not suicidal, nor am I in attendance at a particularly well established pity party. Apathy is not the affliction of choice, and, frankly, it’s hard to write if thoughts are going to drop off in that direction so mercilessly quickly.

Fuck that, and no, I’m not notably upset either. I just don’t feel very well today, and it is only my backhand way of saying I would like to feel better (without hoping for it in the least) that I bring up the emo topic of death. Death doesn’t interest me much beyond a respite from a life that’s not…well.

I woke up to a closed bathroom door, so I walked past it down the stairs where I found myself confronted by a stranger on the couch. He made sleepy eye contact for a second and then turned himself around to face the cushions in a caddywompus mess of legs and blankets.

“Who the fuck are you?” I wanted to ask, but of course, I said nothing and quietly walked past to uncover my bird. I was even polite enough to take my bird back upstairs with me so that she wouldn’t wake up the stranger on the couch.

I proceeded to wait half an hour for the bathroom door to open. While waiting, I cleaned up my living quarters a bit. In the process I found an uncashed paycheck from two weeks ago that I was vaguely aware of missing and an unmarked envelope partially folded, but mostly crumpled, that contained $100.

Now, I am not a person with means; money. No.

This internet connection is not even something I pay for. Even after leaving for several months and coming back to strangers, I am granted control of the access point and subsequent network, because I am the only one with any experience dealing with such unexciting things. Everyone else that drifts in and out of the house just magically expects the dishes to be done, the bathroom to be clean, and the internet connection to always be hot.

I consider myself accommodating, and I like to forget about any income and what I’ve done to attain it.

I will trade many mundane services in exchange for mention of money not to be made in my presence. Ah, yes. And here I am bringing it up. How hypocritical of me, but it’s not as if I’ve climbed up on my dusty old soap box to preach about the nation. No. There are enough righteous minds dedicated to that task, so the information received here is a more personal rendition. I am just talking about myself the way I always do.

I am very important.

I was merely trying to ascertain for myself whether I’m having a good day, a bad day, or some sort of common, brooding moment mired in what I’ve been told is passive suicidal ideation.

I’ve decided that it doesn’t matter.
I don’t matter.
Yes, that is what this aside was all about.

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