mahiwaga

So I ended up being on the road for a good four and a half hours yesterday—as long as it takes to drive to Vegas, as long as it takes to get to Santa Nella on the way to the Bay Area. By the time I realized that I had forgotten my pager, I was already in Oceanside. Fuck.

The side effect of which was that I got to listen to my iPod more thoroughly. My iPod has gotten me through two semi-demi-cross-country trips, westward on old route 66, and a good number of journeys up and down I-5 in the Central Valley, but since the drive between L.A. and S.D. is (relatively) shorter, I find that I don't get as immersed into my music.

I remember, somewhat deliriously, lamenting about how it seems that these days, the only emotions I experience are 1. anger 2. fear 3. dull apathy. If I'm not pissed-off or utterly terrified, I don't seem to feel anything at all.

Of course, I suppose this could just be the medication talking.

But I find it kind of sad in a sterile, quarantined, remote sort of way.

Like it's only sad looking at it from a third-person perspective.

Because, like I said, a lot of the time, I just feel kind of numb.

But music seems to be the key. Or the double edged knife, depending on how you look at it. After a while, I started going through some of my cheesy pop ballad music, and I started meditating on my last quasi-romantic relationship which wasn't really a relationship (I am still at least a little dazed and confused about the whole thing, and have adopted a pragmatic stance towards it: if I can't ever figure out the answer, there's no point in thinking about it.) And how much easier it is to accept rejection these days, to accept that this is how things are, and this is how things are going to be.

To accept the notion of letting my genetic patternings decay into nothingness. To forswear the eternal chain of life and go it alone in the utter black darkness of oblivion.

To accept the fact that nothing lasting will come of this moment.

Again, sad in the third-person.

I do find it disquieting, in a rational, detached sort of way, that whenever I see an attractive woman, or talk to someone I really like, the feeling of defeat and futility automatically seizes me. In some ways, I suppose it makes it easier. Knowing that she will never like me the way that I like her, it is easy to tell the truth, to dissect my own heart, and lay it bare, letting it twitch like an anesthesized rat about to get eviscerated.

And then if we do get along (which is not that hard—I suppose I make a much better friend than I do a boyfriend), I automatically think about all the ways that it will probably go wrong, tell myself that there's no point in thinking about it, and just kind of accept the fact that there's no way in hell that I'll find someone that I like who actually reciprocates.

The odds are against me. I think I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning. Twice. In the same day.

I also recognize that I am making all of this a lot harder than it needs to be, which is, unfortunately, my nature. I am complicated. Soy complicado, not Estoy complicado

But I wonder if I will ever let myself fall that hard again. Having done it a few times to absolutely no avail, B.F. Skinner's principles ought to kick in. No more bashing my own head in with a rock or putting my hand in the fire.

But. As they say. Never say never.

I am so fucking doomed, no matter which way you look at it.