At My Window

Oh hey. Would you like an update about my fear of the short urinal in the men’s bathroom? How about some anecdote about by shitty job?

Yeah, well… tough shit.

I’m sort of growing sick of writing this blog. Not that I don’t find self-aggrandizement to be utterly fulfilling or anything, it’s just that I’m sick of writing about nothing. Because frankly, despite what ESPN and CNN would lead you to believe, there isn’t enough news to fill 1,000 words let alone 24 hours of television. Anyone who says otherwise is either an idiot or too retarded to realize they’re an idiot.

Now generally it would be at this point where I turn my anger and disenfranchisement into some quasi-relevant, half-funny indictment of society. But I don’t have the energy to produce that much bullshit. After 48 coverage of Ines Sainz, I’m convinced that there’s no one left that actually has enough functioning brain cells to comprehend anything I have to say anyways.

To be honest, I’m lonely. Not in the melodramatic, 18-year-old, never-been-kissed sort of way. If I really even gave half-a-shit about getting laid none of you would have anything to read. The fact is that I simply don’t care enough for that. What I’m lonely for is someone that is of vaguely intellectual equality and who has the means and inclination to listen. Several people I can think of off-hand have the means, but no of them have the inclination. In other words, I’m calling half of you idiots and the other half insensitive. Take your pick as to which side you fall on. But mostly it’s just smoke and mirrors to guise that I have no idea how I feel or what exactly is missing from my Yuppie-tastic life that leaves me feeling so goddamn empty.

I have the introspection of a 90 year old. Does this mean I’m mature beyond my years? I fucking hope not. Does it mean I’m just a putz who is inventing a quarter-life crisis to make his life seem relevant in the grand scheme of nothingness that is human existence? Probably.

But maybe not. And that’s what scares me.

- V