caconymhypocrisy

[caconymhypocrisy]

Private Journal Entry - Feb.2, 2021

I haven’t made a to-do list in quite some time. Life was always the same things: same girl, same routine, same job same, set of problems. Same lifestyle. And I think that was the issue: the lifestyle.

Yet I carry it with me. We would drink all the time together. That was a problem we were working on together. Now I drink alone. And now I don’t have anyone to help deal with it. Or I don’t have anyone to drink with. I’m not sure which is the better way to look at it.

So, the first thing on my list was to text my ex. (Not the one I just broke up with.) She was my (used to be close) friend [G]. She and I were very close through high school. I helped her through a breakup, and we shared the same small circle of friends. We dated for a few months after a few years of platonic friendship…

Then, we just kind of fell apart.

We stayed it touch. She moved away. But things were different.

It’s strange thinking about her. We haven’t talked in so long, partly because my last recent partner would have been jealous. In fact, that’s the only reason. Despite our strange short “romantic” relationship, we had been close friends. Good friends. Supportive and understanding. Listening. Whatever. I guess it’s just a quality I miss, something that my current “guy friends” can’t really help with.

Other shit on my list is just bull. Fix the breaks on the car, clean the closet, contact EDD, and organize clothes. Whatever else.

Some strange shit did happen today, speaking of clothes. I sent an email to my recent girl. I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. But through all this emotional turmoil I… have just been thinking about her a lot. Worried. I was concerned so I sent her a fucking email. Is that bad? I just wanted to know if she was ok.

She didn’t respond.

But also, I asked for some clothes back.

When I arrived home from work, her dad was dropping off a few bags of clothes. That was awkward as fuck. I tried to avoid him.

The ex, [G], from high school is awesome. The big reason we fell apart was because of my last girlfriend. Also, [G] holds my virgin card. I told the last girlfriend about that, and since then she was always jealous when I talked about her. But she was a HOMIE. [G] was my really close friend. I hope we can reconnect about that.

And now she moved on with her life, got her shit together, she’s become some sort of fitness coach or some shit. And I, in the meantime, have gained some weight, lost some muscles, and started writing dumb-ass posts to the internet where no one will even read it.

We used to drink together. We started drinking together. Shit, maybe I was a bad influence on her. Maybe she can help me. I need to reach out to her. I think she’s been clean for a while now... I can’t even remember the last time we talked.

Funny how this is now a part of my emotional tangent, part of my purging outlet – I sought the evaluation of strangers through an online platform, a place where the most mundane of embarrassments will make some front page of a meme account, and no one has looked at a single post.

I feel sad.

It’s interesting how ridicule or criticism can be preferable to ignorance. Even if someone hates you, at least they care enough about you to say it. To be left in the dark, ignored, that hurts worse. That’s how you know that she really doesn’t care.

Anyway, this was my way of dealing with it. And now, I feel melancholy. “Woe is me,” you dumb fuck. Stop talking to yourself and stop pretending strangers will be interested in anything you have to say.

Here’s something that hurt even worse: my friend said he saw her [the recent one] on a dating site -- the day after I broke up with her. I thought she was hurt. I thought we left things open. I did it directly, but politely, and I thought she was hurt. I thought there was still a chance for us; she wanted there to be a chance. I left it open. She cried. I cried. I just wanted some space, and maybe... But the day after? God, maybe she didn’t care.

Does anyone like Star Wars?

Through the years, depression occurs for most. Depressed early on, I learned to leave reality and explore the imaginary world of fantasy. Fuck reality.

This is not a healthy way to cope with things. I’m drunk, AND mad. But seriously, too much of my time is spent in worlds like LOTR and not enough in real life.

Now posts like these have become my means for escape from... 

I want to say some bottomless pit or some other creative and vivid description of words to describe this feeling that is ultimately... just a normal human emotion. 

I bet everyone experiences something like this in their lives. Loss and conflict.

And now I’m typing to no one on the internet about it. Wow. So sad.

So, I’m going to reach out to [G] tomorrow. (It’s on the to-do list.) Maybe she’ll have some constructive things to say. Maybe she’ll hear me, unlike these cold lighted words on this fucking computer that I’ve been staring at for the last 8 hours.

Be a better person, you dumb fucking fuck. God, posting self-depreciating shit on Tumblr now… fuck. Do something.

[caconymhypocrisy]

Private Journal Entry - Jan. 2, 2021

February 2, 2021

Dirty. I just feel dirty. But I kind of like it.

I went to work today, woke up super tired. It sucked. Life feels heavy. There’s other shit I should be doing. Productive stuff. Like getting a real job. Applying to schools. Wow, I wonder where I’ll be in 5 years. People usually make that a plan, right? Fuck it. Fuck I’m depressed.

Things will get better soon.

For now, it’s just episodes of stupid shows, watching [that other show] again, and… lots of porn. Gross. It feels gross just to write it. It is still fun to type though. And I think it’s good for me to just express myself on the keyboard. Just writing whatever comes to mind. Fuck it.

This is [my] Private Journal.

Time heals all is what they say, right?

Why do I like porn so much? I feel like I’m just catching up on the years I lost with [her]. It’s so confusing. I miss her, but I don’t. She’d always complain about how we didn’t have enough sex. And I’d always complain about not getting enough alone time. She, of course, thought I wanted to be alone just to jack off. She wasn’t wrong. But also, I just wanted to be alone. I do other stuff too. It made her feel bad when I’d watch porn, like she wasn’t good enough, not hot enough. Or something. I don’t know… the sex was good with her. She did gain weight a bit (we all did during quarantine, and that’s just a thing when you’re together for a long time), but she was still very, very hot. She complained that I wasn’t going down on her enough. Well, I didn’t want to. I wanted to watch porn. Does that make me bad? Was it that I wasn’t attracted to her? I mean I did want to go down on her, but when like, I’m in the mood. When I’m feeling horny. When she makes me feel respected. When I’m not tired of being with her EVERY MINUTE OF EVERY DAY. Just give me some space, you know? Just the nagging was a turn off, the chilling together was fine, great even, (those are actually the times I miss the most) but it’s like, give me some time to miss you. Give me time to want you, to long for you.

And now I find myself dissolved in that longing.

I think that I was. I do miss her. But the thing that was off-putting, the thing that didn’t keep me “engaged” or whatever (she’d always complain about how I would never instigate sex) was her lack of respect for my boundaries. I was with her all the time. All the time. When I wasn’t at work, I was with her. When I wanted to see a friend, she either insisted on coming, felt insulted about not being invited, or simply threw a fit because she couldn’t get along with my friends.

I think I would have been more “inclined to instigate” sex if she had respected those boundaries. Those nights when you need “bro’s night” or seclusion, sometimes to masturbate (let’s be honest, it’s great), but also sometimes just to be alone. To think. To write. To be a person.

It seems a bit stupid to write down all these thoughts. It seems repetitive in my head. I’ve been feeling this way for the last few days (shit, a week now? Almost), but it is just nice to type. To know that I can write anything, let my fingers let out emotions that my voice doesn’t have. And even if I did voice these thoughts, no one is here to listen. Fuck the quarantine. But also, this event is making me rethink my friends.

I mean I’ve talked with them. That’s nice. It’s good to let stuff out. But do they listen? Empathy is a hard thing to come by. I know they’ll be here for me when I need them. Do I need them?

Yes. And this writing shit I’m putting down is just a bitch-load bunch of bullshit that no one would want to hear about. Yes. That’s why I’m writing. To just get my feelings out. To just put them to words. Because my friends are good, but they don’t want to hear about all this shit. I sound like such a pussy. ([she] wouldn’t like the use of that word. She thought it sounded… like… sexist, or patriarchal or something.)

So maybe this is the good thing about writing in this private entry. Just type. Think. Write it out and no one can see. Just express myself. Whatever. Fuck blah bleep bloop blorp omg fuck I spelled a word wrong – who the fuck cares?!?! This is my journal, and I will write what I want.

How liberating, you dumb fuck. This freedom you found came with the cost of loneliness. Are you happy sitting around all day, watching mindless tv and jacking off?

Well, presently, yes. Actually, I wish I could stay harder for longer. The girls you can find online are so fine. And that wave of… whatever hormones or feelings or whatever… it feels so good. Until you can’t anymore.

Then when it’s over the wave of depression comes back, and you find yourself writing to no one.

Also, there’s the coke and the booze. That’s probably why I can’t keep it up for too long. Man, writing is fun. I should really put some thought into writing a book or something because this is fun just to type. But this is just some nonsense bullshit that I’m spitting out. This isn’t anything. I don’t think I’m a good writer. I don’t think anyone would want to read this. This is just some rambling thoughts of a 20’s something kid, bitching about a life that, honestly, he probably doesn’t deserve. Life is too good for me to feel depressed.

Yet I suppose that’s how life is. Who’s to say which personality would fit best in which body or environment? That’s a stupid fucking philosophical thought. Dumb shit. God that’s generic, pretentious. Only someone in my gifted place would have a thought like that. Good ideas don’t come from places like this: fucking over-privileged, cis-gendered, white, straight males are the most over-used source of bullshit that created this bullshit society we are left with today.

I had a goddamn breakup. I don’t even know if it was love. We didn’t have a family, we didn’t share a home, and there was nothing truly at stake. So now I’m having some emotions. Deal with it you shit bag. Everyone goes through hard stuff. And this is petty compared to REAL, real shit. Some people lose children, homes, families, LIVES for god’s sake. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

But this is my journal. This is the point. Emotions are ok. Get them out. Write them down. Let them go and move on. MOVE ON, you dumb fuck.

Also, try to be nicer to yourself.

Let’s talk about strengths some time. What is it I love about myself?

[Friend’s name], my dear friend TRON, one of my oldest companions, a “day-one” dude, as they say, said something very encouraging recently. After I bitched about, “not being anything blah blah worth anything blah blah and people have already done everything and I have no passions and idk what I’m doing all that blah blah.” He said, “Yeah, but there is only one [you]. You are the only one who has your specific talents. Your specific traits that can improve the world. Improve your world.”

I don’t think that’s exactly it. But it was something like that. At least that’s how I’ll remember it. It was probably more profound. The meaning came across as something profound.

He’s right though, right? I got to do something, right? Here I am typing with a capable body, writing to no one, bitching about shit that is ultimately advantageous in this fucked up society, and I can’t do something good? I can’t find a purpose?

Well, maybe purpose isn’t the point. I don’t need a purpose to be happy; I just want to be happy. I want to make other’s happy. I think those two things go hand in hand.

God, fuck, the world is so fucked up. But maybe I can do something about it!

I just feel so fucking sad. I don’t know where to start. I mean, I do. But I don’t want to. I wish someone was here to help. But no, you’ve been typing for a while now, bitch, do it yourself. Discipline comes from within. Just do it. JUST FUCKING DO IT. JUST FUCKING DO SOMETHING.

UGH. Fuck depression. I hope writing all this down helps. God, I wonder how this would sound if I read it back to myself. I’d love to share it with someone, but I wouldn’t like to read this if someone else wrote it. Fuck.

Where do we go from here?

[caconymhypocrisy]

Jan. 1, 2021 - Journal Entry

I masturbated a lot today. I don’t think it’s really a healthy thing anymore. I don’t know. I liked it. But it was for like, hours. And hours. I should probably start totaling the number soon – like start time and end time. It was great, and I want to do it again.

But earlier today I was so sad. I wept at the show “Euphoria”. It pulled all these crazy emotions out of me, and afterwards… I don’t know. I just felt so fucking sad.

I remembered the nights before tonight… the nights since the breakup.

I did a pretty similar thing.

I would jerk off for hours. Like 6 hours of just clicking through videos with one hand and edging myself with the other. It sounds pretty despicable to write it out like this. And if anyone is reading this, just know that I’m going through a hard time.

Although it seems to be getting less hard all the time now. Not my emotions. I mean my dick. After doing it for so long, I think I might start to be wearing it down.

It could be that, or the alcohol, or the coke, or the emotions. But it seems more difficult now than it used to be to keep “it” up for a long time. Yet I still try. I scan the videos, I use my plugs and oils, some stupid ring, all because I want to feel that feeling, that “oh, fuck. Yeah, that’s hot” feeling.

That feeling when you get right to the edge. Right up to the line. And it feels so good and you’re about to nut… but you don’t want to nut. Because when you do, it’s over.

Then you have to go back and face reality.

Then you have to remember why you started watching porn in the first place. Why you tried so tirelessly to get yourself hard again. Why you were looking for some form of temporary happiness that would take you away from this unstable emotional turmoil that you created for yourself. From the loneliness that you so desired and now find that it’s nothing but a pile of bricks that suffocates you. This fucking hell that finds you no matter what you do.

That was a dark line of thought. We all are a product of our actions. And I want to make more actions that improve my life.

I don’t know how to do that now, though. Drinking feels good. Masturbating feels good. Porn is really, really nice to watch (there is so much of it. It’s hard to stop). But all these things fade.

But I suppose, too, life fades. We all will die. And at least I’m enjoying some things, right?

I mean, it is fleeting. The drugs, the alcohol, the few moments of ecstasy before coming. But so is life. So why am I fighting it?

People with these issues, these “addictions”, want to improve their lives. Improve. What does that mean? Stop doing your drugs and obsessions, and start being a better person.

I don’t know. For what? What’s the point of doing all that? Jesus, I sound so entitled. People are starving in the world and I… fuck. What’s the point?

Do something that makes you better. Or help someone else be better. But these words to me now seem so arbitrary. What is better? What is progress? It might be a good thing to have a healthy diet, but why? So you can live longer? Support your kids and your family?

I don’t have those. I don’t want those. I just broke up with my girlfriend. And now I feel so alone. And getting a job, going back to school, or finding someone else to love… it all just seems so… exhausting.

I’m tired.

Fuck the world. Fuck this pandemic. I feel like there aren’t even friends I can talk to. Not really. I mean, I have friends. But they don’t really listen. Not really. Not when emotions are involved. And I broke up with my girlfriend, the one who is supposed to be the person to talk to about these things.

I just feel so alone.

And I believe in my mantra: no one will ever really understand you.

So, progress. I don’t know what the fuck it is. I don’t know why I’m writing all this down. But I can say that I’m enjoying the process of typing.

In self-help books they tell you to set goals, to become the person you want to be, and imagine the memory you want to leave behind.

Honestly, I don’t give a fuck what I leave behind. I’ll be dead. And the person I want to be? Well, I guess healthy enough to jack off another night. It might be nice to have someone to sleep with. Not like “sleep” with like sex, but just to cuddle. But I’ve also enjoyed these nights sleeping by myself. But what if I don’t want that anymore? What if I want some of both? Is there someone out there who can do both? What if I get bored of my next partner? What then? I have to go through this whole entire painful process again?

I got off topic. Setting goals. OK, let me think.

I should exercise more. That’s for sure. I went on a short run today and two days ago with Bosko. I didn’t run far, just a few blocks, and I was embarrassed with how that turned out.

Whatever. I should probably stop vaping soon too because I coughed a lot afterwards. Maybe I should start swimming again.

I want to.

Ugh. I used to be so active. I used to swim at least a few times a week. Depression (I think I’m depressed; why else would I be typing this much at 5:41 in the morning) just makes you feel so heavy. So worthless. Like… what’s the fucking point of doing anything?

My bike is still at her house. And the skates that she bought me… they’re in her car. God, I want those skates. I thought about using them. Then I think about her. Then I think about if I made a mistake leaving her. But then again, no, maybe I just want the skates.

I don’t fucking know.

OK, one more time: setting goals.

Exercise more. That’s something.

Drink less. That one is going to take some time. I think I’m developing an addiction.

Ok – moving out… this one… fuck.

I should move out. I need to. I can’t stay here. Fuck my brothers. And fuck I can’t start talking about my mom. I love her, and she supports me, but my god she really wants me to go through with this PT shit.

And I guess I’m for that. I don’t know. I’m not passionate about it. I don’t crave learning how to be a PT. Helping people is cool, I guess.

God, I feel like such a bitch complaining about all this shit. COUNT YOUR FUCKING BLESSINGS, DICKNUTS. I’m in a good home. And yeah, I’m going through some emotions and that. That’s normal. That’s being a human. Get over it.

You don’t want to work? No one does. Get fucking over it you dumb piece of shit.

OK stop that. You should be nice to yourself. Now I’m sounding like I’m talking to myself, not just writing to a page.

Whatever, everyone has to work. That’s life. Man up. (That’s a stupid phrase, I know. Patriarchy and all)

I am enjoying typing all of this.

It would be more interesting to write about stuff. Maybe I could make a novel or a short story. But what would I write about? My emotions don’t generate creativity. I don’t have any crazy life experience, some traumatizing backstory that can lay down the foundation of some revolutionary work of art. I’m just a boring kid from the suburbs.

Yet, I like writing. Maybe I’m not passionate about it, but I like it. But also… I think I suck at it. Always in the writer’s groups they say “oh yeah, that’s cool. I like this part. Good job” whatever. But those are all my friends; of course, they aren’t going to say what they honestly think. Emotions and egos are at stake.

Maybe I should just share a post like this anonymously on some blog. I don’t know, is Tumblr (or whatever) still a thing? At least strangers would/should be honest.

You dumb shit. Stop asking yourself questions you don’t know the answers to. This is your fucking journal you’re writing in. There’s no one here to answer.

Except me.

Ok so goals. Maybe go back to school. Got to do something. I’ll keep writing thoughts. Fuck the dentist. Exercise. What’s the fucking point. God damn it. What a waste of life.