get your fucking passport douchebag
When we leave for europe, this blog is gonna get canned. It's been nothing but a vehicle for morbid self-attention for awhile now, which is not really all that bad in and of itself, but it's a distraction. I don't do anything creative anymore except for this stupid thing that nobody reads. So it isn't really anything I should continue with.
I think my golyadkin days are over with, too. When I read The Double, I really felt as though Dostoyevsky had found me - that he'd sat down in front of me in the Rutherford library where I first read it, all in one sitting, and looked straight at me as I read each page. Not that I thought I'd someday wind up looking out the bars of a paddy wagon at my grinning spectral doppelganger, giving up my life to a fantasy, being institutionalized. Well, excepting in my more paranoid moments, like when I smoke up (see below). But Dostoyevsky had drawn it all out for me: social anxiety's influence on one's perception of reality, which in turn doubles back and compounds the anxious feelings, and so on, until finally there's a psychotic break.
What I have since come to realize is that while Dostoyevsky fucking kicks ass (I'm reading The Idiot now), he is not a prognosticator. It is absolutely true that perceptions and social anxieties can lay a trap more deadly than anything in the physical world. Unless you can step back from it, outside of it, from time to time, and state the following to the anhedonic part of yourself that you believe to be the author of all your actions, as clearly as you possibly can:
Kiss my honky ass, cockchafer.
Which I can do. Anytime I want to. Whenever I feel that a room full of eyes are fencing me in inside myself, whenever I'm so worried about what people think of me that I feel like anything at all that I do would be a mistake, I can just remind myself that i am a gigantic drooling cockchafer with squishy bits and cartilage meant for crackling under the boot of an apathetic destiny, and that the way I die will probably be at least a little bit funny.
That's what does it. A quick exercise in agnostic brutality, coupled with a few deep breaths. A mental teabagging. And I'm out, I'm free, I'm myself. As much as anyone ever can be, anyways.
golyadkin taught me a lot about how I work, how I behave. It is knowledge that comes in handy. I still slip, sometimes, in social situations. But when I see my doppelganger now, it isn't coming towards me on a bridge, in a night's unsteady fog, with an aim to cut my throat. These days, in fact, I'm chasing it.
I think my golyadkin days are over with, too. When I read The Double, I really felt as though Dostoyevsky had found me - that he'd sat down in front of me in the Rutherford library where I first read it, all in one sitting, and looked straight at me as I read each page. Not that I thought I'd someday wind up looking out the bars of a paddy wagon at my grinning spectral doppelganger, giving up my life to a fantasy, being institutionalized. Well, excepting in my more paranoid moments, like when I smoke up (see below). But Dostoyevsky had drawn it all out for me: social anxiety's influence on one's perception of reality, which in turn doubles back and compounds the anxious feelings, and so on, until finally there's a psychotic break.
What I have since come to realize is that while Dostoyevsky fucking kicks ass (I'm reading The Idiot now), he is not a prognosticator. It is absolutely true that perceptions and social anxieties can lay a trap more deadly than anything in the physical world. Unless you can step back from it, outside of it, from time to time, and state the following to the anhedonic part of yourself that you believe to be the author of all your actions, as clearly as you possibly can:
Kiss my honky ass, cockchafer.
Which I can do. Anytime I want to. Whenever I feel that a room full of eyes are fencing me in inside myself, whenever I'm so worried about what people think of me that I feel like anything at all that I do would be a mistake, I can just remind myself that i am a gigantic drooling cockchafer with squishy bits and cartilage meant for crackling under the boot of an apathetic destiny, and that the way I die will probably be at least a little bit funny.
That's what does it. A quick exercise in agnostic brutality, coupled with a few deep breaths. A mental teabagging. And I'm out, I'm free, I'm myself. As much as anyone ever can be, anyways.
golyadkin taught me a lot about how I work, how I behave. It is knowledge that comes in handy. I still slip, sometimes, in social situations. But when I see my doppelganger now, it isn't coming towards me on a bridge, in a night's unsteady fog, with an aim to cut my throat. These days, in fact, I'm chasing it.
posted by gibletquesterrs at 12:49 PM
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