creep...*

I've come out of today feeling disgustingly unloved and unwanted.
[Before I get any commentary about forget other people, fuck other people, yada yada bloody yada, allow that I know myself, I am rational, and analytical, and that you probably aren't about to say anything that I can't work out for myself.]
All is about the self and I fully acknowledge this. It is my perception, of me, that leaves me cold and alone. I need never be alone. There are billions of people in the world. Millions in this city just outside my door.
I have been, in mine own estimation, a not nice person today. [Actually, nice isn't a me word at all. It's over used, insipid through repetition, insipid by meaning. A nonsense word in so many ways. It isn't that I haven't been kind, charming, or polite today. I don't like kind either. Kind is taken to be some sort of twisted mantra - one must be kind and nice....yeah, on the surface. Kind and nice lead to a sort of hypocrisy that leave me cold, sick, and loathing.] I have been cruel and demanding [mean? oh another one...] harsh, a critic, a bad child to good parents, I have been spiteful and gossipy and have relished the roles. At the end of the day the ends come together and karma (oh beloved karma, the microcosm karma, the karma of the self) comes for me. I cannot sleep easy until I release some thought. [Is this the hallmark of the perfectionist, the manic, or both? this overreaction to barely perceived wrongs. Perhaps, the world is revolving around me in this instant. Hell, doesn't it always? When are we ever far enough from our own heads to un-distort the view?] So what, so I haven't ended the day happy and complacent. Does it matter? Should one ever end the day happy and complacent? Look at how we live, how we behave, at our poor sick little world....oh the megalomania, the megalomania.
Anyway, as I said, this isn't about the world. Fuck the world. This is about me. Feeling like a creep at the end of the night of a perfectly ordinary day. Angry at people who are [oh don't label, labels are so bad...][they're also tags, to identify people, because the other methods take a century to describe] losers, pathetic losers, losers who - despite my wits, my awareness, my anger, and my desire to not - I love. Let's tone down 'love' shall we? Let's say 'care' because to use words indicative of passion or even strength of emotion is - passé? - not of the times? - honest. I stand upon a pedestal and proclaim [by my own interpretation and use of the 'tag'] 'I love [a whole bunch] of losers'. And I think I'm mad at them for it. Actually, I am definitely mad at them for it. I am sick of caring about arseholes who seem to have a congenital inability to see past their own [ah ha nice loop] arseholes [up which their heads firmly reside] and care about anyone else. Or who have, for altogether too good to miss reasons, decided to cut me from their lives or their affections or their time. [It's a nice knack, wish I had it. Thou hast offended, be gone - boggart! And, Lo! boggart was gone...] This'll learn me to engage in and master tit for tat. For isn't this the way the world is run? [He tried to kill my daddy...][Let it go, dude, quite a lot of people have tried to kill my daddy too - and I can understand why, sometimes.]
This is all bullshit, of course. Straight up, plain truth is that I am annoyed with myself for being annoyed. For being petty [heavens, am I? Gosh, how alone I feel. I'm sure no-one else on this great big ole planet is ever, ever petty, or pathetic, or weak, or...or..or.]. For being silly. For caring about the uncaring. For not caring enough for the caring. For being both too much and not enough. I am angry for my dissatisfaction. A lanky god once, twice, a thousand times cried, 'Oh we weren't supposed to be, we learnt too much at school now we can't help but see that the future that you've got mapped out is nothing much to shout about'. Seems a little unrelated? Ah, maybe, but here I sit, grossly overeducated, gross, bored and dissatisfied. There is more to life. A shitload more to life. And it's the pettiness that rises to the surface. That causes angst and ire. That makes one question. And wonder. And causes one to give it all up in the pursuit of comfort and forgetting. [Life, eh? Some good shit that. Had some once. Once was enough. Bit of a rush. Can be addictive. Mostly just makes you wanna scream and maybe kill things.] And then in comes back to me. Arcing across the page, through the ether, piercing the heavens and back to me. [Vainglorious? A trifle. But then, this is about me. I have the majesty of artistic licence at my disposal.] And I find that the anger is mellowing, for this evening. The hatred remains – oh no, not ‘hatred’, ‘dislike’. The irritation will be constant. And I, oh glorious me, can make myself believe anything. Just like everybody else. Maybe I just let go. [Bullshit.]