I am pretty tired now. Got little sleep, trying to write an essay. Finished it off today and handed it in 50% over the word limit, unsure about it.
Saw a couple of girls and a couple of guys I should know a little; got paranoid [wrong word as this is fairly objective]. Once again, they see me either as exceptionally geeky and awkward, or just plain weird. One was the girl from down the road. Once more then into a cycle I so don’t need.
Louise was talking the other day about how glad she was that Tristram didn’t say anything about gays the other day. She had spoken to Rowean a couple of times about him, in Rowena’s way. They do buy a lot of platitudes and it can bug me. It is wrong in every case to be judgemental etc. and the word can get thrown in your face. It is also always wrong to point out differences such as between gays and straight guys. Anyway, Jayne says here that bigots bug her.
She was talking about Nietzche the other day and she says how we shouldn’t pay any attention to him as hec was mental. ‘Depressed’ and all kinds of stuff. I felt trapped. I couldn’t tackle it indirectly because I thought she so clearly hadn’t understood it and was suffereing some uncritical liberal kneejerk in the way both she and Naomi do – and I hate this – and they got this view of me as good at philosophy. I just couldn’t asrgue my case here, and she wasn’t listening. She was watching some bad tv in that way that always gets to me. I guess I had one of my many Holden Caulfield moments. Just like today with my own solicicisms once again becoming ubiquitous. It’s like electric shocks shoot from me towards anyone I could get close to or care about; some deep insight into my twisted psyche revealed in some stuttering, stupid phrase, some non-sequiter, some rehearsed insouciant remark, frightened glance or movement.
And I can’t convey these feelings to anyone for fear of being a crazy Nietzche even to those who believe themselves so enlightened (so much more so than I could ever be to their platitudinous, doctrinaire, unthinking minds).
Slip back into that comfortable facetiousness, come out when I analyse that I should be angry or such.
She’s so out of my league. And she isn’t alone.
A non-day. Woke up to an as-ever ambitious alarm clock – dialled in with the same speciously calculated air that I give to the two teaspoons of coffee I shake in to a cup in measured iterations - extremely hungover. Assumed dressing gown. Pissed. Collapsed into bed once more. Ouch.
Another house party last night. Can congratulate myself a little more than usual on my extra-special brand of quasi-autistic socialising which was not quite as egregious as it has previously been in my various paranoid and vigilent-self-conscious states. Had a laugh.
I’m not writing at all, though I have at least recognised it as a problem that I would like to rectify [and I am now looking at this as an interesting document. Oh dear, must my innocence be lost so soon? – and yawn, as I write this I think you pretentious wanker! 04.10.01]. I am willing a recrudescenbce of my writerly ambitions. For what else do I want to be? This lack of a specific ambition could easily be seen as a problem, as it is by so many people, but why not take a shot at writing itself, rather than driving myself consciously into some tangential cul de sac before I even fail miserably? And why must that failure be miserable rather than honourable? Is it not entirely ignoble to compromise myself? I have ideas and I must develop them. I can write, I know it. My will power is pathetic and I am conscious of this, but I need only to plan myself into my writing more than I do, just as I have only recently started to plan my essays in this way [I am procrastinating now from doing just that as I an essay due in for Tuesday.]
I have got a first (76) for an essay I thought to be abysmal and incoherent. I think I must concentrate less on this work, free myself a little from my concerns over time and efficiency, my disorded world and trying to do my best all the time. I need to read more novels, let myself relax into a life I wish to live.
I am obsessing once more over a girl down the road. Over all my putative inadequacies. A stuck record.
Ps. If this still is or needs to be a mood diary, I have been great for a long while. I feel both normal and happy/contented and can conclusively reveal that it is most certainly worth it. I’m not ‘up’ now and I’m good. I am healthy.