Opinions Are Like Assholes

 March definitely hasn't been my month so far (and the lack of blog posts prove that), with work being exceptionally busy and particularly infuriating (all at the same time, preventing any usual compartmentalization I would normally employ), and social media discourse has been driving me nuts, to the point that I'm considering dropping Twitter for good (save, maybe, keeping the podcast one up...but it's not like that gets any engagement).

I don't know what it is about discourse that bothers me so much, but it really upsets me most of the time. And not because I don't like disagreements (which I don't, as I've discussed before), but due to some vague sense of discomfort that results from seeing it. 

Post-Oscars has turned into a series of nonsensical arguments and binary decisions between Sinners and One Battle After Another (either you must ONLY LIKE ONE, or OBAA IS RACIST BECAUSE IT DEPICTS RACISM or some kind of nonsense like that, or SINNERS IS JUST FROM DUSK TIL DAWN), people who apparently don't know who Paul Thomas Anderson is...and then there's the Marvel Vs DC (an argument that literally comes down to "whomever makes more money is clearly superior," which is utterly ridiculous) stemming from the release of a new Spider-Man trailer, "Dune is better than Star Wars" , an off-the-cuff joke taken so seriously that even Grant Morrison thinks the reason Lanterns is called that is because Damon Lindelof thinks "Green is dumb." 

That's just the last few days on Twitter.

The thing is, if someone doesn't like something, or just doesn't care about something, I honestly don't care at all. Even if it's something I love. But when something is patently untrue, unresearched, or even thoughtlessly discarded, it makes me feel badly inside in ways I can't seem to fully understand. Most people seem to not care very much, if at all, or engage in huge arguments over it (which is where my discomfort with disagreement *does* come in: I never engage in fights over this stuff because I fear it'll get carried away, or it'll get personal, or someone who I care about will get their feelings hurt (or they'll hurt mine), or some sort of negative outcome will occur. Certainly, no argument is going to change anyone's mind.

Maybe that is what bothers me so much. It's not so much the opinion (you can think Dune is somehow more culturally and artistically relevant than Star Wars, I don't care), but the misplaced confidence in those opinions. 

Before the internet, I don't remember this level of sheer confidence in something entirely made up, something nonsensical, something that cannot be proven or disproven. Opinion confidently stated as unassailable fact. And I'm not entirely sure where this came from, if it existed beforehand and, again, why the hell it upsets me so much. Personally, I think it's the result of "everyone has the right to their opinion" being taken too seriously. It's how we got shit like Trump. Hell, Trump even helped to normalize it: we all remember "Alternative Facts" being pushed, right? Combined with a generous helping of main character syndrome and weaponized therapy speak, set in an arena of anonymity, and the stupidest battle lines are drawn. 

And some of it isn't even honest! We have rage baiting posts seeking to stir up outrage for attention (because attention is monetized, not based on merit, so a tantrum gets rewarded), while at the same time "heartwarming" stories (I have seen the same "My niece stuck up for me at thanksgiving when my uncle said something transphobic" story repeated verbatim four times, to the point that I find myself doubting it ever happened...but maybe it did, at some point, because it's not like people don't just steal posts for their own engagement metrics) and cute pet reels are also freely spread dishonestly. 

I think maybe that's it. Dishonesty. I make two different podcasts that are pretty much literally just me sharing my opinions. But they are honest ones. I thought about them. I researched when I didn't know or understand something (but not through those insipid "Joe Dirt explained" videos, and certainly not from a video of a man nodding his head in front of a TV screen while a movie plays and oh my goddess I hate the content era and also it is CAST not casted and the next person who uses "Coldest" instead of "coolest" gets a roaring elbow to the neck), and it is explained and extrapolated on. I have never, and will never, say something just to get a response. Hell, neither podcast has a particularly large listener base because we avoid shouting about our existence too loudly or forcefully. If we switched to being controversial hate-mongering grifters, or just rage baited, we'd probably be rich. 

I can deal with certain levels of stupid in my life, if that stupidity comes from an honest place. I'd rather be in conversation with someone who simply doesn't know stuff than someone who clearly doesn't know stuff but pretends they do. THAT causes anxiety. Because it's just in bad faith. There's no conversation to be had, just a dumb, uninformed mound that is convinced it's a genius because it thought Bergman was overrated, reading is hard, and "Hollywood is cooked because look at this bad computer game cut scene my AI made." There's no conversation to be had. Just confidently poor opinions, based on whatever random thought they felt they could get away.

And the final element, I think, to tie it more to my own mental health struggles is that I cannot quite reconcile any of it in an orderly way. It's chaotic, messy, a swirling tempest of ideas that swing around mindlessly. It's the twister scene from Wizard of Oz: dog barking, I'm dizzy, houses and cows are flying by, and my mean neighbor is a witch for some reason. None of it is tied down, or grounded, just stuff thrown around without meaning. And this is the generally harmless stuff (in the end, nobody can possibly be hurt over Sinners is the best film ever and One Battle After Another  is bad except the person who has that opinion because, guess what, both films are pretty amazing...however, the idea that this years Best Picture Oscar field was better than 1975's is harmful, because you should see those movies if you want to be "good at film discourse," but that would involve challenging your horizons, and why do that when you can just rage bait and, seriously, I hate the modern internet). This isn't the "Making AI art of Sabrina Carpenter naked" or "Create a rumor that *insert female wrestler here* had sex with *insert male wrestling personality here*" stuff. 

I cannot make sense of it. It's hard. And so it makes me angry and tired and anxious because I simply cannot wrap my head around even a single element of it. I'm big on managing to find common ground, if only because sometimes I find I don't understand emotional and psychological nuance as much as I should, and have become strangely literal, so I have to re-focus, and contextualize encounters and thoughts to make them fit, which is where a practiced empathy comes into play. I may not be able to fully understand, say, the logic of an idea or behavior, but I can understand the emotional core of it, the "I think I get why you are saying or doing these things, even if I don't know the what or how" of it all. I can understand something stupid being said or done in the moment, especially now when everyone is really amped up about pretty much everything because we're all being digested by late stage capitalism. I get why you might be mad Buffy isn't getting a reboot, even if I don't know why that is causing you to say the things you are. 

Anyway, just as I think I started to find a groove, it's time for me to return to the salt mines and wish for a personal medical emergency that will allow me to leave. Still not sleeping well. 

As always, thanks for reading. May be a little more intense and annoying than my usual. 

But I just don't understand things sometimes.

How Do I Get Out Of This Chicken Shit Outfit

 I haven't been keeping up with this as much as I'd like (and I would like to, don't get me wrong, I have found this process to be at least mildly therapeutic), but work shifts have been a bit more intense lately, and that has been incredibly frustrating it and of itself. So I'm trying to maybe get into the habit of doing this at home as well, so here I am, at my little collapsible desk at home, typing out some thoughts I've been having this week.

The job is mostly fine, really. I know that is probably mostly true, or at least true enough to be comparable to your standard job. Nobody wants to work, we know we're doing it largely for no reason, the wage disparity existing in this country has never been wider and more transparent, and we're all frustrated and angry and tired at how hard we have to fight just to exist. So I know it's really not worse than any other job. I have had worse jobs in the past. Hell, this job is better than the one I had directly before it, so technically I'm still up.

But I find it so hard to just exist in this work environment. Management is clueless at best, negligent and harmful at worst, the hours suck, the clientele sucks, and I have often been placed into situations I don't feel comfortable in (nothing scandalous, mind you, I have no patience for outright abuse, no matter how low my self-esteem may have plummeted in the past couple of years), especially in terms of my mental health struggles. Putting aside everything else, working alone a couple nights this week was really stressful. The brass at work do not understand why, though, viewing the job solely through the lens of "How many check-ins does the hotel have and how many rooms are sold" and not how much stuff there actually is to handle, the stressful guest encounters, the lines that form, and they especially do not understand why this would be a problem for someone with mental health struggles. Not that anyone should particularly expect them to understand that: the world is not made for those who struggle, but for those who thrive easily, often due to basic social and genetic lottery (or privilege, which would probably be the most concise way to put it).

The stress of those nights, and the high anxiety that came with it, made me ask myself some questions that I often ask myself but never seem to follow through on.

Most of you reading this have probably known me awhile now, and probably generally remember that I have worked in hotels for the past 22 years (with a few lapses and detours), and probably also remember that I have hated it for twenty of those years. 

I have never been good with people, at least not especially, I don't do well with conflict, and the only responsibility I like to accept is one I am specifically compensated for (and share with others, or at least am supported in). The policed structure of customer service has never been one that ever really worked for me, and yet I got stuck in this clown show, constantly forced to return to it every single time I find myself once again backed into a corner by any multitude of reasons (sometimes circumstances of my own making, and I am willing to accept that fact, and sometimes just bad luck, probably a 50/50 split, taking into account over a decade of the slow decay of my mental and emotional health and self esteem), and I keep asking myself why I keep doing it, or why I accept it. I could have gotten this job and kept looking, but I allowed myself to accept that "this is what I do," becoming comfortable in my own discomfort and believing that "this time, it'll be different."

They say the definition of insanity is...well, I'm not finishing that sentence, it's a cliche and you know it anyway, but there it is. I do keep making the same decisions. Always out of need at first, but then I stop there. Need generally fulfilled, no need to keep pushing. Just keep your head down, you got this, right? 

I don't.

As I become more and more aware of my general decline (and I think I found a way to get meds, I have to research further, but there seems to be some pretty decent systems that don't really require much more than my insurance (or low enough co-pays if I don't have that insurance), and that looks promising), I realize how much the work is doing to accelerate it. 

I wish I knew exactly what else to do, but it is far past time to get out of the hotel biz and find something else, even if it involves less pay or whatever, just for the sake of my own mental health. I am considering (probably 85% convinced) cutting back to part time, at least for a time, as to limit my exposure to a toxic environment, and give me more room to myself, but that does involve some concessions I have to be sure I want to make. I also am going to bring an application to the movie theater nearby, but I'm not sure they need help and, even if they do, it probably is just minimum wage work, but I might feel happier? I liked the theater job I had before, and could probably enjoy doing it even if it doesn't pay as well. But we'll see. The hours of operation are a bit of a challenge, and I do want to try to time it in such a way that I may run into a hiring manager (I fear just leaving the application will result in it being disregarded: they likely would just assume I want to be manager, and if they don't need one...) and do some talking, because I actually am good at that kind of talking. 

No matter what, I really don't feel like I will get any better continuing this line of work. It makes me mean, it makes me tired, it makes me hate myself. My work performance has already begun to suffer in the past couple weeks and I fear the more I let myself slowly not care whatsoever, the closer I am to being fired, and that I most certainly cannot afford. But the weight of it all on me, trying to push through my own mental health struggles for the sake of a paycheck, it is absolutely killing me. It has gotten to the point that I sometimes day dream about an injury or a heart attack, just so I don't have to go anymore. And when "being at home with a truly debilitating permanent injury" becomes a cozy alterative to the life you have...I think one has to start considering a change. 

But it cannot be a lateral one. Not again. Right now I can sort of afford a pay cut, so maybe I should take that opportunity while I still can and see if I can get better. Maybe, with some meds, some rest, some hard work on myself, I can be good at employment again. There are days where I am desperate to believe there's a reason I live in a single room, eating all my meals out of a microwave, in an apartment filled with people I can't stand, in a city I kinda mostly hate, and maybe that is the meaning I need it to have. I have said many times over the past couple years that I need to retreat in order to move forward, but I felt too ashamed to actually do that. I always want to feel normal and productive and never want to admit that maybe I do suck at adulting, that maybe I do need to keep things simple, and the idea that I need to be great or even good at things is just the pressure of the expectations placed on me in my life. The shame and guilt I feel over being a minimum wage employee, that people would see me as a loser because I don't make enough money, don't have the great job and the great house and the great cause. Maybe it's time I realize that nobody but me cares about that. I certainly don't judge other people's vocations. 

Maybe I need to get over myself, accept that maybe I'm not the usual successful adult I want to think I am, and deal with myself on a more rational level. There is no shame in being average. In fact, greatness seems to come at a cost that I no longer particularly feel comfortable paying anymore. So...perhaps it is time to finally make my peace at the small, simple life. Be the starving artist I was probably always meant to be.

Just as long as I don't smell like french fry oil. Shit is gross.

No Sleep Til

 Been a few days since I've done an entry, largely due to work being crazy and my not being in the habit of doing them when at home. Not that I'm necessarily disinterested in doing them when I'm home, just that it isn't a practice I've adopted yet. I probably could have found some time to do it, but didn't really have the energy (due, again largely, to the aforementioned work load). I also have been very, very tired for days now, due to poor sleep.

That really is the main thing on my mind right now: how tired I am. I have the time tonight to do this, but the work load is still very heavy (I guess there is some sort of Basketball thing happening), I'm stressed about working some nights alone this week that are slated to also be very busy, and I'm working alone because they promoted a co-worker without, y'know, figuring out who would do her job after she had been promoted? Gonna be just one man, standing alone against the evil forces of capitalism-emboldened entitlement, and hostile anger that is foundational to modern America. Like a really shitty Buffy The Vampire Slayer who is a short, fat guy whose knees ache in the mornings and sometimes feels like giving up and dying as a matter of principle. 

And I can't seem to sleep.

I try to go to sleep many times a day now. Today, I laid down at 8am. I felt tired and sleepy, so I went to sleep. I woke up an hour later. used the bathroom, couldn't get back to sleep. I laid there for hours, trying to get there, and it wouldn't come. So I got back up. Went to the store, even. Took a sleeping pill. Nothing. 

Finally, 4pm, I fall asleep. I wake briefly due to my alarm, but not enough to get up, and I slept too late and was late for work. Every day, it feels like I am falling asleep later and later, but still getting up at the same times, and it is incredibly frustrating and exhausting. I'm just so tired all the time. And all day, when I am awake, I don't do anything productive. I'm in this zombie state in which I can't focus on anything, my mind wanders and floats like a hyperactive butterfly, only briefly landing on anything substantial or real.

Perhaps my depression cycle is swinging back into the down side, but I still mostly feel okay emotionally and psychologically (besides the stuff that is caused by being tired), and I find myself trying to remember when this sleeping issue really got started, and wondering if it did somewhat align with the depression upswing. Wouldn't that be something? Feeling better emotionally, now you can't sleep? I dunno, I'm trying to lower my caffeine intake a little (difficult when you have to stay awake all night), washing my bedding, and drinking more water. Hoping that makes a little difference. Or if it is just a phase and will eventually sort itself out (which I find does happen when working overnights). 

At least there's some free food tonight? It's not good food (it's like middle school cafeteria pizza), but it is free. I like free.

I keep yawning. Can't make my brain work very well, and my eyesight is foggy and sensitive to light. Like, I have no discernable thoughts, just autopilot. It's taking a lot of energy to type this and, try as I might, I can't see to find anything to think much about besides being tired. I know there are ideas back there somewhere (Werewolf movies, vague and probably misguided ideas of watching all the comic adaptations there are, and I mean ALL OF THEM, D&D thoughts, creative ideas...they're back there, waiting, but inaccessible, like a Princess locked in a tower, waiting to be rescued by a short, hairy guy whose knees ache in the mornings and sometimes feels like dying on general principle), but cannot be reached. 

Mostly just did this post to try and resume the practice. I find it rather theraputic, even if it sometimes does feel like whining. But maybe we just have to complain into the universe in order to stay sane.

Gonna get back it, difficult as it is, and hope for more sleep today. Thanks for listening, anyway. It's nice to know someone is, y'know?

Whining

 Probably will be a short entry tonight, I am very tired and stressed. Can't think too good. My job in particular is giving me a lot of that stress, especially with them scheduling me a ton of days in a row and overtime I didn't want, and if there is anything that makes me incredibly angry, it's feeling dismissed or taken for granted by an employer.

I get that all of this is "at will" employment, and that an employer can basically do whatever they want ("and if you don't like, there's the door"), but that is no reason for a working relationship to be an abusive one. Seven shifts in a row is a lot, even when not working overnights, and only having one night off to rest (and do whatever else I may want/need to do) is also pretty unacceptable. And it was not, and never has been, discussed with me. And I know it could be worse. Could have no job, be homeless, die alone in a gutter, whatever. Doesn't mean it doesn't suck.

Still not sleeping well, either. Even if the roommate doesn't make a shit ton of noise in the morning, he's still using the bathroom for two hours (not hyperbole, I have waited for up to two hours to pee, checking every twenty minutes to see if he's still in there), and I have to sit there and wait. Hard to sleep when waiting to pee. But even if that doesn't happen, I am have an incredibly difficult time getting to sleep before 2PM lately, and it has been stressing me out. I can sort of fall asleep for an hour or two, and then I wake up, and either the noise/bathroom situation happens, or I lay there trying to sleep and just can't. It is terrible.

This all sounds really whiny. It's hard for me to take these things seriously, because somehow I got it into my head that complaining/worrying/caring about yourself is a selfish and morally incorrect thing to do. I'd fight like hell to correct someone else's discomfort, empathize with their problems, feel a million different ways, but if I direct any of that at myself, I feel like I'm being selfish or vain. "There are starving kids in Africa with nothing" kind of thing. I don't know exactly where that came from, at least for me...I know there were religious teachings involved in my childhood, and my Mother and Grandmother both instilled a certain "do for others before yourself" values, but I don't know where the idea that caring for my own well-being without a sense of shame or guilt, or at least without it being considered a moral failing, came from. 

The same is true about needing help. Help other people, for sure, always, but never ask for it. Never need it. That is a failure. It's weird how these things are coming to me now, at least on a conscious level, but there is something to be said for my being at a general low point in my life, which is kinda the purpose of this very exercise: to document the low points as some sort of way of understanding the whys and hows of being low, possibly in a manner that may help me to escape being low, and prevent being low again?

Anyway, other than feeling like an abused worker and a restless zombie, very little else is going on. Finished season three of Community. that was fun. That means it's time to move onto the (mildly) unfairly maligned season four, which should be an interesting exercise. Haven't watched that season in a long time. I am still mulling over what I might want to do after I finish that show...do I do a new show, rewatch a favorite? It's difficult. 

I had gone into 2026 with an idea I would try to watch new stuff, and there is plenty (both film and television) to get to, and the list keeps growing (the Fandango account Sammaeal is nice enough to share with me is probably around 1400 individual titles when you factor in bundles and incidental doubles, and I haven't actually seen at least a third of them), and I specifically wanted to focus on new stuff because I have the tendency to keep watching the same stuff over and over again (last night, home from work re: "illness", I just watch Rifftrax, which is a common practice of mine. To be fair, one of them was one I only saw a couple times before). So I'm in a sort of "Do I do comfort watching because I'm depressed? Or do I venture forward with the new and increase my overall knowledge and love of film?" place. Difficult to do both.

I've threatened myself with a "don't think, just go alpha-numeric and watch whatever is next" and maybe it is the only option that may get me someplace. I know I want to rediscover my love of media, and that really does mean a mix of rewatching things I used to love, things I currently love, and new things that will expand my horizons. Maybe I really should just go alpha-numeric and skip whatever is super familiar. 

Feels like this entry has been kinda pointless. I guess when journaling, not every day is interesting or a revelation. There is probably a lot more to explore about my strange inability to value myself at the same level as I do other people, but I don't have the bandwidth to really delve into that. But I guess it should go on the list of things to work on. I'm assuming other people don't have some martyr complex in which they believe they deserve to suffer while others don't, and that acknowledgement of that suffering of the self is a moral failure. 

Makes me feel like I need to watch The Deer Hunter again soon, though. That's kinda the whole point of that movie.

Dreamatorium

 I had an unexpectedly heavy response to an episode of Community this morning that has been on my mind since I watched it (despite sleeping afterwards, at least a little), mainly because it ties into last night's post about the fear of rejection that comes from being, at least, a little different.

There's an episode of the show called Virtual Systems Analysis, in which Abed (an autistic young man obsessed with film and television, so much so to the fact that he finds he can rarely relate to people outside of film and television references, which is already very me) is forced to have go-getter control freak Annie be his partner for play time in his Dreamatorium (a sort of play room where he and his best friend Troy essentially play pretend in). Annie, annoyed by Abed at the time, readjusts the "engine" of the Dreamatorium in a way that forces Abed to filter things in his fantasy world through empathy instead of his skewed rationalism and objectivism. This causes Abed to have a break down and Annie has to play pretend through a fantasy hospital show to find Abed (who is pretending to be all the other characters in the show). 

This makes total sense in context. Community is amazing.

Eventually, Annie discovers Abed locked in a room, chained to the wall, in the place where Abed "is always eventually placed when people inevitably get tired of him." Annie manages to talk him back to reality by suggesting that he is generally loved unconditionally by his friends, and that sometimes not knowing what is going to happen is actually a good thing (and that she, also a control freak, needs to learn that as much as Abed does).

Of course, I was particularly taken with the above quote: the idea of Abed being locked in a room where people put him when he becomes too much (or not enough) for people in his life. A lonely space in which he exists alone and friendless, and that so much of his efforts to carefully map out and control the world around him is ultimately just out of fear that, in the briefest of seconds in which he doesn't, that world will reject him and not want him in it. That even the friends he has bonded with will eventually shove him into that same space. 

Every time I watch Community, and most TV shows I call my favorites really, I tend to find someone new to relate to strongly and, in many ways, Community is quite possibly the show I relate to the most. This time around, I've mostly been keyed in on Britta (frequently an overlooked character on the series, second possibly only to poor Shirley, who has never received the respect as a character she deserves), and the previous episode had a really sweet moment in which Britta finally learns to accept a man saying something nice to her (and being moved by it in such a way that it made me choke up a little), but that isn't what I'm here to talk about. 

Creator Dan Harmon has stated that he understood that maybe he was autistic or adhd after writing Abed for six years (this was later confirmed once he started therapy after being named during the #MeToo movement-he apologized both publicly and privately to his accuser and sought therapy to better himself-when he was informed of an aspergers diagnosis) and watching the show now makes me wonder (more so) about myself on the subject.

I've suspected for a few years now that I'm on the spectrum, or adhd, or whatever and haven't had the opportunity to find out (on my list of things to do), but this time around watching the show, I see more and more of myself in Abed (this visual representation of the isolation felt upon frequent rejections one can't fully understand is only the most recent) and it makes me wonder more and more about myself.

I had a drematorium of sorts as a child: we called it The Sand, a desert like patch of land at the other end of a small foot path leading from my backyard as a kid. I used to wield broom handles as a sword and pretend to be a knight, doing battle against monsters, or carry a book around as if it was the diary from Indiana Jones And The Last Crusade, guiding me through booby traps and granting wisdom about whatever imaginary religions I could make up as a child. The other kids saw me doing this once and made fun of me, of course, talking about me "talking to the trees" and so I stopped actively playing pretend shortly afterwards, and The Sand eventually became more public knowledge, and my brother and his friends would eventually do drugs out there, or backyard wrestling. Possibly both on at least one occasion. It never bothered me much then.

But even now I frequently still yearn to do that. I have conversations in my head frequently, sometimes out loud if I know I'm alone, not in a schizophrenic way, but in a way that fantasy encounters often help to sort out complicated feelings and ideas. Sometimes it helps me to relate to others better, to imagine their responses to thoughts or questions as an extension of my own. I imagine complicated Dungeons and Dragons adventures that will likely never be played (I've considered writing them down and putting them someplace online like modules, but I don't know anything about that, but I think people do that? Maybe eventually I'll look into it: I honestly believe that now, more than ever, I should release some sort of artistic writing into the world without seeking to make a dime. Art is better when it's freely available), often laying in bed, imagining what characters might do in a situation, what the NPCS would do, what their voices would sound like, what kind of monsters should be faced. I've been obsessing over a very dark, higher level adventure in which proto-elves seal their kingdom off to contain an invasion of Mind Flayers and, in the process, become insane themselves and shit gets real, and it's kinda awesome.

I used to talk to my cat, too, and while she never responded, she always seemed to like to listen. I used to tell her my thoughts on movies sometimes. It didn't feel terribly lonely. 

The pipeline between mental health and creativity is a fascinating complex (and yet obvious) one. As such, in my present space, I found myself considering the Dreamatorium from the perspective of what it meant to Abed instead of a plot device or a strange, eccentric "wacky" concept for a self-identified "weird" character. Yes, it's unusual for a young man (his age was never officially stated, but he seemed to be in the younger half of the group, likely 19 or 20 by season 3) to be playing pretend, even stranger for it to be "real" to him in a very functional way, but it also makes a lot of sense to me now. The idea of creating complex fantasies and stories in order to function, to help him run "simulations" that allow him to understand the people in his life better (even if he maybe takes the wrong lessons from said simulations), suddenly made a whole world of sense to me because, while I no longer physicalize those adventures, I am still that kid in The Sand, imagining things as they might be, or could be, and tuning out a world that, as alarming as it may be sometimes, doesn't make nearly the same amount of sense that fighting dragons does. 

In fact, as the world becomes harsher and life becomes harder (and that's across the board, folks, not just for my weird ass), the more the importance of escapism can be felt. More and more, I'd rather play pretend than deal with the real, and I find myself wondering why, exactly, we can't. Why does adulthood come with the hardness of the real, and not the furthering of the curious mind? While responsible life, and survival at it's core, requires a certain grip on reality (the show rarely discusses how Abed does things like, say, pay his rent, but that's fiction for you), it's sad that it does not include space for a Dreamatorium. 

I want to stop worrying about talking to myself. To imagining things. While I never want to lose touch with reality altogether, because that way lies madness, but I want to stop feeling ashamed of the fantasy. Because often what polite society calls "weird," may just be the most rational way to deal with a world that doesn't make sense, and that's why we need fiction. It's why we need fantasy. 

All Apologies (in a Kurt Cobain voice)

 Back on my bullshit. Had a few days off and haven't gotten into the habit of doing this at home just yet, so it's been a few days. I didn't get much done in that time, unfortunately, mostly did a lot of sleeping and staring off into space. Eventually, I will muster up the energy to get the things I need to do finally done, but right now it's probably best I don't make too many demands on myself. I can get most of it done fairly easily, though, and will need to push myself just a little more in the coming week. 

I figured it'd be a good time to maybe talk a bit about social media, since I don't have much else to report on, really (my boss is back from his sabbatical, and he tells me my "weekends off" schedule may be semi-permanent since my coworker was promoted, so I guess there's that. But I always am a "seeing is believing" guy when it comes to potentially good news). 

I've struggled most of my life with feeling seen and heard, and on feeling replaceable. I never feel like I'm allowed to disagree, or express my own opinion, without being dismissed as a friend, or whatever. I'm lucky enough to have built the relationship with my podcast co-hosts that I have, and so I feel like I'm allowed there (but sometimes even guests being involved cause this surge of anxiety in which I feel like I have always tread carefully with disagreements) to express myself. Even then, not always. I often apologize to both of them for basically no reason, and always have a latent fear that they will eventually tire of my nonsense and want to quit associating with me. Or that the only reason they still do it with me is because they think I'd collapse without them. Nothing worse than a friendship born out of pity or codependency and, while I am normally very sure those relationships are not that, my brain often asks "Yeah, but...what if it is, though" and I get very nervous.

I've been kicked out of a lot of friend groups over the years. On some occasions, there was a good reason, others maybe not, but it hasn't particularly helped my own sense of self-worth to be so regularly dismissed. As a result, I tend to overcompensate, tell myself I need to be better for other people, and that means never disagree, always be grateful for the friendship, follow the rules they set for you. Don't talk too much, but try not to be too quiet, because they'll hate you for that, too. Never rock the boat. Never get off the boat. Unless someone else needs a seat, then get off the boat.

Social media hasn't improved this position, in fact it may have increased it. Obviously we live in a time in which social media has run rampant, the court of public opinion has all authority (except when it really matters, like in the case of current politics), and friendships are easier than ever to obtain (and even easier to lose). And, as a result, a misread post or a misunderstanding, or a disagreement, can cause a most hostile relationship (or the dissolution of a relationship) and so I am even more wary of posting much of my thoughts (outside of this, in which I can make myself very clear in what I mean, in as many characters as I need). Even recently, I've had some posts that has received comments that felt hostile, like I'm in danger of being disliked, unfriended, or otherwise dismissed, and I know that chances are that is mostly on me and, chances are, those who commented didn't really mean to cause the reaction they have: but I don't feel like I am allowed to mention it. Even though my feelings are hurt, I don't feel like I am allowed to have hurt feelings. If I say the wrong thing to someone, they're done with me, and so I can't speak my mind. And that hurts all the more. So I continue to walk on eggshells with absolutely everyone, apologize all the time, make myself small, because I don't want anyone mad at me. 

I'm too worried about being judged to say much of anything. So the worse things get out there, the higher the emotional stakes, and the more vehement the opinions become from all sides, and it gets even worse for me, because if I disagree with them, they'll kick me out. If they disagree with me, they might get mad at me, and what do I have to offer that is worth sticking around for? 

Arguments and conflict become almost unbearable as a result. I'm terrible at it now, and I used to be really good at diffusing conflicts and mending hurt feelings. Used to kinda be my main function in some of those aforementioned friend groups (many of which dissolved entirely after my departure). Now, even at work, I'm shrinking away instead of fighting, and I have hid myself away more and more as time moves on. And that has been extremely hard on me. My confidence is at it's lowest as a direct result, my isolation feeling more total than it ever has before, 

I need to work on it, and feel more secure in speaking my mind, especially if it's to protect my peace or improve my situation. And trust people a little more, or at least trust that , even if they do reject me, I'm better off without them. I'm a tad too old to still be having these feelings of inadequacy on a daily basis, and maybe this blog can be a new beginning in terms of dealing with that. Not that I'm a hurry to go out and upset people. 

Too many people are already doing that, especially the ones in power, and that is it's own level of horror when it comes to social media. All the depressing "AI art," regressive political policies that are hurting people (and too many people policing just who is allowed to be hurt, or how people are supposed to respond to that), too many bot accounts and engagement farmers stirring up negativity for popularity (which is why I frequently end up making apologies and disclaimers here on this very blog: nothing worries me more than the thought someone thinks I'm doing this for attention or "clout")...it is a depressing place. I can one friend who vehemently thinks everyone should boycott Scream, while another friend just loves Scream and can't wait to see it, and I'm feeling too uncomfortable to say much at all on the subject because *one* of them may be mad at me, and I don't feel I have many friends, so I just...what, plead the fifth? The more intense any given discourse becomes, the less I want to speak (and, arguably, it's more important than ever that I speak?), and that drives me crazy.

My hope is that in writing this, maybe I can start to feel more comfortable. I also hope nobody feels "called out" by it, or even that they're being referenced. I think this blog has been theraputic, if nothing else, and I generally feel pretty good about writing it. 

But, for now, I'll probably mostly stick to talking about what I'm watching on social media and the occasional meme, and hope that I can remain in a decent headspace for just a little while longer. Make slow progress, try not to feel like I need to apologize so much, and maybe start to feel like I don't have to hide myself to make others happier with me. If I have learned nothing about myself in this life, it's that I have no fear of being alone, so maybe I need to stop pretending it's a failure to be alone. Take some more risks. Because it's better to know where you stand, even if you're standing alone.

#1 Crush

 I don't feel much like doing this tonight, or much of anything, really. I'm feeling very tired, and the occasional negative thought is making it's way into my brain, like a weird slug thing into Chekov's brain in Star Trek 2. The Wrath of Khan. Had to make sure the whole title was in there.

I'm trying not to let the negative in, though, and the best way to do that is to stick to this new routine and write whatever is happening in my admittedly silly, sleep-deprived and generally stressed out brain. I suppose it's worth noting that I don't actually remember what the negative thoughts were about, which is probably a good thing. I suspect it had something to do with feeling mildly rejected throughout my life (which is a common theme) and my always present fear of MORE rejection by others. Got caught apologizing to Maggie for basically no reason, and it once again came around that I need to probably start doing that.

I did have something to mildly celebrate, which I mentioned to Maggie when she and I talked around our Buffy podcast, which is that this morning was a strange period in which I thought a lot about my own romantic and sexual history and didn't feel guilt or shame from it. Normally I think about that history and am constantly bombarded by thoughts in which I did something wrong, that I did damage, that there was something wrong with me in general. Even relationships that ended positively, I tend to think "I did something wrong" or feel some sort of way about it...but this time, I found myself thinking that I shouldn't do that anymore, that most of my guilt and shame is self-inflicted friendly fire, a ritual I force myself to perform because I have a hard time considering myself anything other than a loser at best, a villain at the worst. I constantly turn it inward because otherwise I may have to admit that I am not a bad person. At least not in total. And I need to get better at thinking of myself in a way other than as a bad person. So I told myself this time that I would put aside the grief and try to think well of these things.

The real reason this came up was due to something silly, and it had everything to do with realizing I had a crush on Jason Priestly as Brandon Walsh in Beverly Hills 90210 back in 1994, and that 1994 may have possibly been the most important year of my life in terms of romantic and sexual interest. 

At the time, I was thinking about the new Scream movie (it's all anyone wanted to talk about on social media, at least until the Paramount deal went through and now there's that, too) and how I probably would eventually buy it (a long time from now, when it's on sale for super cheap) just to have the complete set, and I found myself wondering somewhat what Neve Campbell's appeal was (it's her laugh: the squint, the dimples, the head tilt to the back and side, followed by the downward look, like she's a little embarrassed by her mirth) and where she had come from, and that was Party of Five, which I watched because it aired after 90210, which I watched because I wasn't sure if I wanted to kiss Brandon Walsh or Be Brandon Walsh (not that I had even a fraction of awareness at the time). And I only continued to watch Party because I fell totally in love with Jennifer Love Hewitt. Like, giggling, swooning, feet-kicking love.

This realization led me to think about my other first crushes and the first time Twelve-Year-Old Nathaniel decided to flog the bishop...and all of it was 1994. Party of Five and 90210 both would have been watched by me in 1994. The first time I ever really understood that I appreciated the opposite sex was Lea Thompson in Howard The Duck, which was before 94 ("It's just Lea Thompson?" my Mother's boyfriend said when I enthused how pretty she was in that movie)...but Caroline In The City was 1994, and I watched the fuck out of that show, you guys. Amy Jo Johnston of Power Rangers. '94. Larisa Oleynik *and* Meredith Bishop of The Secret World of Alex Mack (I remember buying an issue of some teen magazine just because Oleynik was in it), 1994. 

The July issue of TV Guide in 1994 had a feature article in which they pretended Cindy Crawford would have a successful career after departing MTV's House of Style in which she wore a slinky red dress and red heels...and when it became no longer useful, the issue was thrown away and a twelve-year-old Nathaniel snuck it out of the trash when no one was looking and hid it under his mattress. 

Other than Crawford, they also reveal a type.

Pretty big year, 1994. Couple years later, it's Lisa Wilcox in Nightmare on Elm Street 4 and Alyson Hannigan on Buffy, so add a second type in there. Shy red-heads with aggressive sides.

From there, my brain ran through a series of possible off-ramps, which ended up being memories of childhood. First kiss was in 3rd grade (Jana, my first love, who kissed me on the school bus, gave me some costume jewelry and said it was her dad's...and then she kissed Greg, the bully, who demanded I surrender the ring, and I defiantly and heart-brokenly refused and he beat me up and took it on the playground in front of everyone. It was all down hill from there romantically, I'm afraid), at the time I couldn't remember my first makeout, but I literally just remembered a girl named Anna that lived near the church I was forced to go to as a kid...roughly around 1994? Maybe a couple years later? Pretty sure she was the first.

Losing my virginity was a traumatic experience that I won't go into here, but it wasn't until I was 22, because I eventually began to associate sexuality with guilt and shame due to a general lack of sexual education until high school, and by then it was too late and the act of sexual behavior was built up so much in my mind that I could never go through with it. 

Anyway. Gotta let go of that guilt and shame I associate with this sordid nonsense I just wrote down. Maybe learn to forgive myself for some of the lousy shit I did do and not blame myself for everything else? Learn to accept that relationships are fragile things that take two people to create and maintain and maybe even end? Stop trying to take so much responsibility for my history that I forget that others share some of that responsibility? In a way, the idolizing of past lovers, crushes, and encounters as perfect, blameless victims is just as guilty of objectification as it would be if they actually were victims. And most of them have likely not given me a considerable amount of thought since then. Not everyone has a perfect memory of their every bad experience like I do, probably because most people haven't convinced themselves to hate themselves quite like I have. So, I'll work on forgiving myself and maybe even forgiving them, too? In the instances they may have wronged me? 

I have no idea if any of that made sense. And any attempt I make to make sense of myself always feels like narcissism unless it's self-blame. Because I was raised to believe that Men take responsibility, a good person only thinks of others, to blame other people is a sign of a guilty conscience, and other likely well-meaning lessons that, when taken literally by a probably at least mildly autistic (or some other personality disorder) leads to a harmful view of self-actualization.

....I seriously meant to mostly talk about my crushes in 1994 and how beautiful Jason Priestly was (is?) and not end up here. But such is the miracle of the free-thinking, stream of consciousness process of this exercise in self-understanding. 

I've come to realize that the public nature of these posts is not so much a need for audience, as much as it is for accountability in terms of my efforts to understand myself. Perhaps I simply need to be seen.

In order to be truly honest with myself, I must be honest with everyone. In a broad sense, save for when being specific in a humorous way. 

But I have maybe had a breakthrough in learning to forgive myself for things. So. Bully for me.