I'm just tired of myself. Being introspective isn't exactly fun when there isn't much of one's self to examine.

I'm also tired of pretty much everyone I know. Exhausted is a better word, fatigued beyond words, infected with an unending lassitude derived from my interactions with the world. However, it's not the /WORLD'S/ fault. I'm cursed with a broken lens, my interpertations are skewed. (Notice how I completely distance myself from blame by writing 'cursed'? Fuck my pseudo-religious explanations for my problems. It's my fault. MINE. Just as it's my fault that I'm going to post this and expose everythingites to my insipid ramblings. Everyone has problems, and most worthwhile people do not use inappropriate internet forums to complain about them).

The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a heav'n of hell, a hell of 'heav'n
What matter where, if I still be the same?

That sums up my feelings about my life, although Satan means the opposite in his self delusion. Poor guy.

Amusingly, that I'm actually writing this is one of the reasons that I'm so exhausted by the thought of a continuation of 'me'. I'm so painfully self conscious it's sickening. I'm sick of myself, and sick of myself for being sick of myself. It's a knot that can only be undone by a conscious decision to snip the entirety. I'm such a whiny little fuck for writing that. And a self conscious little fuck for writing /that/. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me.

If I actually post this, I'm a pathetic fuck who's looking for a justification for his existence. I want to be told I'm special and wonderful and loved by complete strangers over the internet so I can live a few more weeks of my miserable life without sticking a pair of gardening shears through my temples. Yeah, that's it. Actually, compliments and reassurances just make me nauseous. Because secretly, or not so secretly, I /wish/ they were true.

Oh yeah. This is a daylog, isn't it?

Yesterday, I couldn't think. I bungled painfully easy material in French class because of three factors, a) my stupidity, b) my insomnia, and c) my poor concentration, which is tied to factor a. Then I waited a few hours, attended my guitar class, and shared dead baby jokes with acquaintances--in the process learning depressing news about another aquaintance, which I won't be able to verify until next tuesday. Fuck that.

My next destination was home, where I found its other occupants watching television as usual. I ate a tub of Ben and Jerrys, read my e-mail--which had the expected soporific effect--and entered into a blissful slumber. Living is worthwhile, if only for sleep.

Hypnos and I are close friends. I'd leave myself for him any day. (Notice the odd expression, 'I'd leave myself'. I denotes the self, being a first person personal pronoun, as does 'myself'. If 'I' left 'myself', would 'I' be 'I'? I wouldn't be 'me', I'd be another 'I', right?)

There. I'll post this fucking thing, and then probably immediately remove it. My conscience will kick in, for pretty much everything on E2 is read at some point, even if it's not on new write-ups. If I'm callous enough to allow someone to read this, then that's just one more reason to hate myself.

Update, like ten seconds later

I find these mood swings of mine hilarious. A moment ago I felt as if I was being strangled by my own stupidity. Now I'm comfortable with it. In an hour I may revert to crushing depression, but for now I am sane, or insane--depending on which mood is which. My brain chemicals must have some serious imbalance.

Oh well. I will allow this daylog to exist as a monument to my mercurial temperament. I'm such an asshole when I'm in a good mood.