And here we are again, once again writing without knowing anything about what I want to write about, save that there is the urge to rattle away at the keys and let the little narrative in my head out.
I have a thought about what the little narrative in my head looks like. It's a little purple and blue fuzzball made of rubber, with googly eyes and a set of incongruous, yet wicked-looking claws about sixteen inches long. It peeks out every now and again when my skull unhinges. It's mostly harmless, most of the time. It gets surly when you prod it, though, and I don't recommend feeding it leetspeak. Nor do I recommend telling it that warlocks are overpowered, 'cause they're NOT, dammit, and people only think so because they need to l2play!
New York and living by myself has done something kind of unusual to me. I've always fancied myself insular, very much an introvert, but I'm starting to suspect that's more of an imposed introversion rather than a natural state of being, set into place by a combination of factors ranging from moving at an early age to a country where I didn't speak the language, to my parents' very messy separation. Of course, my nigh-constant insistance that being anti-social is my natural state of being really doesn't help either. That's another matter that needs some addressing - taking responsibility for my actions and decisions, regardless of what I determine to be my "natural state of being" - but that's also a matter for another day.
Random aside. God, I'm going to be an alcoholic when I'm forty. I can feel it.
Anyway, it's interesting to me that people who are generally social outcasts, loners, insular, or whatnot tend to find outlet in artistic activities. What's more stereotypical than the image of the goth sitting all by himself, writing poetry or doing artwork that is charitably described as fucking depressing? Yet, the very act of writing poetry or doing artwork is a means of self-expression and thus, I think, a means of being social when ordinary methods of being social are unusable or unacceptable. Or, for that matter, undoable. Which brings us back to the tremendous balancing act that is being a social individual. Just as I have this urge to type out, oh I don't know, SOMETHING when I don't have any qualifiably useful to say, for no other reason than because I have something I want to say and the cockroaches in my room aren't the best audience. And although I believe in a form of God, he's unfortunately just not responsive enough to make a very good confidante. Or maybe I feel silly talking to God. I haven't decided yet.
Oh, and yes, there appear to be cockroaches in my room. This is a rather unfortunate development that occurred either a) fairly recently, b) over the course of the last several decades, or c) over the course of several geological eras, depending on your outlook on the matter. Then again - this IS New York, after all, and I rather doubt there are any apartments here, no matter how immaculate, that don't have a cockroach or two hiding in the spaces between the walls.
Regardless, they're making their presence known to me now, and it's starting to, how do you say, ick me out just a little. I don't really have much against cockroaches - I'm not really that susceptible to your average set of creepy crawlies with (number of legs > 4), but I do have a rather horrendous mental image that I'm going to open my bag of Home Pride Honey Oak Wheat Bread and be greeted by a torrent of brown carapaces and scuttling legs.
Ick.
I don't mind creepy crawlies - I'd just prefer that they keep to their corner, let me have mine, and stay the hell out of my food.
My final aside (although it does occur to me that my asides tend to overwhelm my main points. I think my asides actually ARE my main points, and my main points are actually my asides, and I do this because I'm a tricky, tricky bastard) is how ironic it would be if this cold I have complicated into something else at the start of the new year. Because guess what - the medical insurance that I was under (i.e. Mom's medical benefits) has offically declared that I'm too old to be covered. I'm fine with that and I can understand that. I'd just be annoyed if opportunistic infections decided that the moment I officially become the uninsured artist is the perfect time to floor me and shove me into a hospital.
'Cause that would just, ya know, be mean.
Cheers, mates. (And I'm not even British!)
