Wo sie nicht ist\kann ich nicht sein

Small prebed blog, on account of the worm in my heart caused by my separation from my beliked. what to do? take matters into own hand? that were very risky indeed, given i don't fb, she does (probably), etc. on the other hand, i don't think it would be unwelcome. I got to bed sorehearted, woulding that I were a beckett hero, with a heart as dessicated as mr burns, so speech, no words, and a body already dead.

J'ai lu tous les livres - that is, all my work is done - mais la chair est triste - that is no mc action last two days and thus none for a month. However, it isn't fit to groan or grumble. I have made progress this year, what with the internet broad whom I met three times, and mc with whom there is a very good chance that there is something, tho the fear is that this will dissipate in the break of the holidays. Moreover, i've gotten into a fuck of a lot more conversations with people. I feel that there is a chance that this year could be my year; it took me a long time to settle in primary and secondary school. I just wish that there were a way that we could keep in contact over the holidays. She is indeed on facebook, but i fear that it would be too forward to add her, given that it would be evident that i don't use it. Ah, the human heart. Looking back at the start of this blog I am made aware that life is indeed possible for me; that I can attract people, can get on like a normal one. In a certain sense my human heart is agrieved at the timing of this holiday, tho I am mentally and physically tired. But anyway. I give thanks to the Weltgeist.

Nur ein blogchen. Yet more antics today with mc. It is looking, in fact, increasingly likely that she does in fact like me. Certainly more so than say a month ago. Again we had dinner together. And you know, we do real get to know you stuff, like what I would imagine normal people would say on dates. There are moreover several little signs: had I walked home earlier, she had done the same, she followed me. Cept as I needed a pish likes. Ich weiss aber nicht genau. Was ist zu tun?

Kallifragilistic day. At teatime mc came and sat by me, the second time she has done so in as many days. This time however we conversed the whole time, then walked home together. So i'm happy this evening therebecause. I fear that'll probably be my week's supply of her exhausted, although she may be around tomorrow. Is there any concievable way I could keep in contact with her over the holidays? That were fine.

Wellity wellity wellity. Today was spent frustrate wittgensteining. I just can't get the picture theory. In many ways its so obvious, but I just have a mental block. Problems moreover with wisdom tooth, think it broke, but no pain. Scared as always thereby, need go dentist. Give me, o someone, the strength to change my ways. Apart from that not much to report. I am mainly writing in an attempt to stop the fond fantasies which i've talked much about re mc. i go into the last week of term more or less despondent; really, what can happen? I play scenarios thru the night; that we walk somewhere and that she professes her love etc. It's beguiling, being human, that we can be charmed by what isn't. No I must laschiare ogne speranza; really, its ridiculous the extent to which things happen when you don't expect them, and don't when you do. I need to empty my head really.

wellity wellity wellity. When I said above that making a move was a nice problem i was wrong. just spend an evening with b, which was fine but i don't know how to further things, and after a point it'll get ridiculous if nothing continues to happen. For it will behove me, but i don't want to be so behoven. If only it were the done thing to talk about what one thinks. but no.

Days, days. Today featured: a lovely rhubarb crumble. And with MC? Vague awkwardness. Only in the context of a social occasion does a gesture have meaning, and the context of dindins and my having nothing to say were. Well, perhaps the context principle doesn't have that wide an application. Bleh. It occurred to me that I ironed out a kink in my thinking: to the extent that it's very unlikely anything'll happen immediately or ever w/ MC, it is pragmatic not to eggbasketify her. But then does love, unlike truth, admit of pragmatics? Is the heart but a calculating machine? Why am I so sonorous these days? Was sind und was sollen die Moeglichkeiten? Ah, for a nooscope. Nevertheless, my intention in blogging is to hoard my treasures, and analyse this hoarding. For my treasure today was slight, so slight. On entering dining hall she seemed to pace across the room to enter simultaneous with me. Yesterday, she sat near me, a slight breach of etiquette I think. Now to the analysis: such things, on which I set such stock, are really piddling merdated nothings.
What's so shitting annoying but is that my ineptness can be taken for rudeness.

OK, i'm fucking royally with the time sequence, and posting twice in succession which you, curious reader, will no doubt ponder over. However, beblogged it must be, what happened last thurs. There was a book sale on. MC (oh, it reappears!) and I went. I guess one could almost call it a date, to the extent that it was outside of an immediate classroom situation. And oh, was it pleasant. Again, the sense of having made a connection sparkled in my brain, with the result that I veritably twilighted.
Moreover, i was exasperated from the previous evening's now realized as misinterpreted activities, and it buoyed me to the extent that its happening seemed providential, and i mean that grave term gravely.
Anyhoo, its a curious feature of the human animal, that it can, lying in a darkened room with the scurl of traffic without, be transported in transports, in mental imagery of other human animals, setting the heart aflutter while refraining from over-using the refrain O Leben, O Moeglichkeiten!, and to the martian, or indeed the mere moon person, there is nothing doing. But could i martial all my forces, and engage in the war of love, and win a prelude to a marital exuberance? And indeed, what does Wittgenstein impress upon us if not that we can represent what is not along with what is not, that is, possibilities. Wir machen uns bilder der tatsachen. But is it a tatsache, for its certainly not a sachverhalte, complex being the potential love, and if it be, will it ever be revealed in an adeaquatio, in a glorious correspondance between the two barely aforementioned animals?, between hoped for thought and conglomeration of brain chemistries?

Ah, life. Bad? day. MC, to use an abbreviation i probably won't again was not there. She was there tho later in evening, in a quadrangular social situation, sitting opposite me, which i hate. And thus, I was unable to lavish the appropriate attentions on her. There was a little play, but it wasn't sufficient. And it dawned upon me that there will prolly never be an appropriate situation in which to make the transition from friend to more. Life. Also, got my worst mark ever in an essay. This i'm not too woebegirt about on account of the fact that the teacher is evidently a shit hard marker. Finally, another internet chick my senior who it would appear lives in the past after two messages suggest we meet up, which was weird. Don't know what to do thereover. Then of course there's net's chick a), hereafter and for one time only B on account of her broadality, who is quiet and whom i lack things to talk to in meatspace. Perhaps perhaps go to cinema with her again soon, tho i am kind of broke. And maybe make the appropriate move. Ah, tho, fate (allusion)

One of the problems of having been an alcoholic is that it isn't great for one's health. Specifically, my teeth are pretty bad, full of holes and i'm scared of the dentist. This is something i need to work on for despite my fairly rigorous current oral hygiene regime one pays for the actions of one's former self, and back in the day i wouldn't brush my teeth before going to bed because i would drink more in bed and didn't want the lovely boozy taste to be marred by toothpaste. Moreover, one of the last if not the last time that I went to the dentist I had like a panic attack, so that has prevented me from going back. Perhaps the very fact of talking about this and objectifying it will make me take a course of action. But it will cost, and moreover i'm very embarassed, and the low cost solution would require me to perhaps be treated by people whom i know. I simply couldn't afford normal price dentistry. Perhaps if I come into money. But it causes me daily anxiety and fear for the future. Thankfully at present my grill isn't too bad but this will only get worse, despite the best laid plans. Really it's a question of when not if, and i should make that when as soon as possible. One of the important things to realize is that the situation is mine. It's not good saying oh that's nothing to worry about; also to chastise myself. It's a fact that I am what I am, and was what I was, and that I can't just run away from it. Yes.
In other news, my plans for socializing are going well. The possibility is open for me to see the internet girl again, and tho indeed i will need to make a move sometime, well, that's one of those nice problems. There's also fate (see below for the illusory allusion). And thereover I think often smilingly, but if there is indeed something, which is not definite, how to do something about it is another question. Tomorrow may or may not see something happen. Would I be ready, willing or able to ask her out in some sort of scenario? Well, yes, those words could certainly apply. aHmmm.

Ah, misinterpretation. Having just spent a lovely evening with the chick maligned below i realize that any faults in the date, if date it was, were probably owing to me, nervous and talking my arse off, as opposed to her. I am bathed in the glow of successful socialization and happy with life. Ish. For - unless i'm misinterpreting again - there are Zeichen that it (subject: das maedchen, tho not das maedchen mentioned several posts back, whose my thought occupation warrants a separate blog of its own) is indeed, as the kids say, "Into me", and that the task of "making the first move" will be "derogated" onto me. And this is something i've never done, the fear of exposing self. But am remarkably fearless at the moment. Is Rhodiola a wonder drug? E.g. of fearlessness: prior to meeting her there was not the faintest trace of nerves.

Well, it was. It was indeed a shy-ster. My performance was ok, tho not great, tho I think it could have been good had I something to work with. I'm remarkably unperturbed about it, tho I just wolfed half a big pizza and chased it with a bowl of cereal. But too excited to sleep, even when it's a negative excitement. I imagine nothing further will come of it: the hope that's kept me afloat the last couple of weeks has run aground. Einsamkeit bleibet meine Freude. I'm not quite feeling this acerbic disappointment yet tho. Sie hat aber fast nichts gesagt, elle n'a dit presque rien. There are lessons: the possibility of a lived life remains, this has perhaps shown me this. But i rerecall my dinner time inadequacies, which pain I had ignored buoyed by the aforementioned hope. To have never connected, with anyone, ever, since time immemorial. Einsamkeit bleibet meine Freude. I don't imagine she'll want to see me again; if I were her, i'd be feeling bad, embarassed. In most ways she's like me, except I did some pregame prep, I psyched myself up etc. Indeed, I know, well kind of, that the way I percieved her is exactly the way others perceive me.

Well, guess who's got what may indeed be a date tomorrow: This lesbian ( I'm not appropriately sexed to be a lesbian, it's a sarah silverman quote). Needless to say there is not a little angst thereabouts. I need to think of things to say, although luckily it's in the context of a cinema, so there won't be that much talking involved. It's sort of a softlanding. That relaxes. But bloody hell, progress has indeed been made and lamentably not blogged. One's blogging activities it would seem is inversely proportional to one's happiness, but then that was known. I've been emailing this girl for a few weeks now, fairly intensely. She is funny, bright, attractive. I need to drill into myself, the truth, if it be true, or at least the pragmatic truth, which it procul dubio be, that one is what one makes oneself. Specifically, I need to remember the importance of a good, banterful first meeting. If I can concentrate on being personable and specificially funny, the rest may write itself. But tomorrow should be fairly vile. NO. Tomorrow will be fine. There will be a few nerves, as is inevitable, but i'll study, wash me clothes etc. etc. It will become 8, I will turn outwards, and all will be glorious. Anyway, join me tomorrow for the inevitable postmortum and hopefully some reflections on the nature of life and possibility, which latter the world is showing me, as I asked her to.

Some things to ponder on. I tend to be someone to whom people go with problems, that is, resolvable problems not general moany problems. Because I think logically. Now I myself have a problem, which i can't figure out. The thing is this: i would like, and i think internet broad what I talk at would like too, that internet broad and I meet. But I don't know how - quite literally - to go about asking. Perhaps it's rejection fears, that of putting myself out there. I'm tired, I stop.

Ah, days, days. Well. Hmmm. Nothing to report in fact in fact. Netful dalliance potentially. It's a very nice broad, funny etc. My day-to-day life is replete with awful social interactions, mainly at dinner times, which have almost entirely ceased to bother me. Not that i've given up hope or nuffin, just that i've gone past the stage of being disappointedly surprised. tis de rigueur. Also replete with shyly flirtations with flirtations working, like old gravity, over a large distance, on account of my praeternatural goodlookingness. So I guess the plan - such as it is - in this patriarchical society, is that it falls to me to try and initiate something w Ihre Durchlaucht (god, that's quite a clever pun), puzzle sweat and puke in anxiety thereover, succeed offchancedly, and live foreoverafterinagloriousundifferentiatedglow.

the eternal possibility-of-shenanigans draws us on

frei nach goethe.

A tough week last but non at least introspective, now i'm back to the uni and back to the bemoaning tho i'm in good mood now. Little concrete possibilities are offering themselves at the moment. Interesting observation: on the dating site i message people who are unlikely to message me back; i never realized i was doing this until i reflected on it but it's clear i'm dooming myself to failure thereby. There remains the meatspace maedchen. Who knows, something might happen. I don't really have any desire of friends, just a girlfriend. And not just shenaniganicly speaking, not primarily in fact. Someone to feel close to i guess, to care for and be cared for by. Aw shucks, the necessity of bathos. Potentially one on said site, tho i fear it's a shy-ster. Hinauf. Enough.

Welches Land? Cornwall. It - as inevitable - saturdays. Rain taps on the window. Same old story. But i have something to talk about. It is the already noted problem that i'm obsessed with how people perceive me, and/therefore i'm unhappy with the train of my life. I need to accept my einsamkeit, that one can only put oneself out there, that things need to happen to one. True? Self-deception? I don't know. If only I was what I was like a chair is a chair (forgive the Sartreism). Sartre makes this big thing of the fundamental project. But does not my fundamental project determine me as much as any Freudian drive? But the thing is I should relish my aloneness, find things to do other than pine thereover. And I do. But I could do more, so my thoughts didn't turn so often fantastic. This blog is in fact a good outlet, but it takes up only 20 minutes. I should write. Writing will soothe all pains. But above all come to accept myself somehow. I think i'm still holding out for literally the deus ex machina. I anxiously check my email constantly, never to have recieved everything. I build up the checkpoints of the week, then lament their inevitable passing. I want to be happened to. But this is bad thinking. I need opportunities. This is purely venting, with no interest in coherence or humour.

Loooow- that I wouldn't say bou to a gooose is my problem. And i like to lie on my side in the rain. Back home, the time now punctuated - six weeks and nothing. Seeds, indeed spermata of life, but as yet neither flower nor fruit. It must be possible to take one's existence for one's own. To live in the facts, and accept them while also trying to change them. There are two things: one should propel oneself forward, but one must also heed the now. That I am aphorismenos eis dusangelion emautou, that outis me russetai from the circle of self, and that tho tuche it may happen that there be a time when all slathers out, joyful into a moment; it may also not, and lonely I'll grow lonelier, older and decrepiter; this is a fact. It is however my fact. No. Sartre. No. The self is an illusion.
But we are trapped. Our facticities overwhelm. Who will release me from the bullshit of the thoughts these?

Mild disappointment and nothing better to do compels me to tinkle somewhat the plastic. Begin patheticness: the frauly female that I covet and I's interactions today weren't as top notch as could have been. I guess the lesson is that I shouldn't overanalyse things. That would certainly be conventional wisdom. The reason being there is too many variables, too many possible interpretations for each and every human deed. This seems hard to deny. But, then, the devil's in the details. Mentalists and such like see so much more than us, and it must be assumed that it's there to be seen. That small things betoken past themselves. This is also conventional wisdom. I've a weeks holiday, and my fond fantasies had me imagining that there would have been some concretum that I could have taken home with me, a certain sign and addition to the treasures of my spirit. But no. I go home empty handed. And until there is some such sign, the scary, scary possibility rests that it's all in my head, that these transports have no foundation, and that the progress I percieved myself to have made have been misinterpretations, that I am still enclosed entirely within myself. How can one know - to put it poetically - if one is really alive in that sense without evidence? How know the external world exists when all we have are our ideas? And does that not open up great possibilities of puns? Of the real danger of solipsism right here?
Ultimately - tho in fact this is very likely not the case, or at least oftentimes not the case - there must come a time when one knows. I have known before, with the aforementioned 1st year girl. But she dished out Evidenz like it was butterscotch. This one but don't. It is halt possible that... well, i'm repeating myself here, really just typing to time waste.
Come on, you big bloody life, life me!

Well, the plan for socialization continues apace. The cinema was natch uneventful, and today, there was more evidence that the Maedchen and I could be on the same page, shenanigans wise. I just don't know! Dem bitchez are straight inscrutable, at least to me. So I'm going to lapse into pathetic analysis mode. It is not often I feel a rapport with people, that I connect with them, especially new people. And when I do, I tend not to to such an extent as I am doing. I like talking to her. But ------------ how do I know this isn't just normal sociality, the product of a social girl misinterpreted by an unsocial man. Time, I guess, will tell. It's interesting, I seem to be at a similar crossroads to the one I was at before coming back to university. There is a future progression, or rather there will be. Will what I perceive to be there prove in fact not to be and to never have been, and will these days buoyed by a concrete as opposed to an abstract hope be looked upon ruefully?
There is an objective psychological fact of the matter at the moment, in her brain, which is in fact most likely located at present 2 floors above me. Do her thoughts turn mewards, as mine herwards? Or is it horrendous to say just a figment of my unschooled imagination: is there concretely nothing in her neurons pertaining to me? This, I guess, is living. I was going to say it would be more lively had I a better set from which to make my inductions, but that's probably not the case. This is living. Weird to be human, to be moved so much by potential fictions: to be so thoroughly rent with possibility.
But back to more pragmatic concerns. The main thing now is to get her number, arrange some sort of meet, some sort of out of school thing. It is possible and necessary to do this without giving the game away, without exposing myself to rejection. Ultimately perhaps the time will come for such exposure. Am I ready for it?
I'm not generally a negative person, but I'd like to end on a suckingly negative subjunctive exclamatory phrase: oh that her neurons might not be firing!

Oh that I were fey! Should it not be am I fey? Are all these perorations fey?

http://www.learnersdictionary.net/dictionary/fey

Well, i'm a hero. That is, i'm going to the cinema with people outside my immediate family, in about 40 minutes. i'm not going to let myself get depressed about how this warrants a blog, because it's really a good thing i'm doing, tho i'd rather stay pascalesque in my room. When there is one cause of nervousness, i have noted, the others all barge in, until one can't look sideways w/out being overwhelmed with angst. Almost such is me now. The time trundles by.

I am the autodidact. Well, I am a autodict, but not necessarily the autodidact. Hopefully, even equally lonely, i'm the less deceived. But am I the less deceived? And if he has mauvais foi, I at least have a mauvaise foie. It parties w/out, a force of nature. And I shatter PNC by neither wanting nor not wanting to be there. The autodidact, in a tent of prisoners of war crowded together is at his happiest. For then, at their lowest, they are his equal. And by the transitivity of identity, I am a group of prisoners of war. But it's absurd to suggest i'm a group of prisoners of war. Therefore i'm not an autodidact. BUT, does it follow from my being the autodidact that I shatter PNC? If so, my not being the autodidact could really shore up logic. I'll take it; the set of premises 1) i'm the autodidact 2) I don't want to be in or not in are inconsistent, and not because 2) is contradictory in classical logic.
This is a timewasting way of saying i'm alone.

Abermals bin ich. Sentence over. Perhaps to be added: on a friday night. But my german doesn't go that far. In fact, I quite am, this moment, having just watched, thru the shivers and welling eyes of art, the candy coloured clown they call the sandman scene from blue velvet on the youtube. Fine, fine stuff. What is frank thinking when he gets upset?
Another week gone, and back in my room. Next week i'll be back in my room and home. Will any progression have been made in these 6 weeks? Some progression has been made, and, given the nature of time, the answer must be thus affirmative. But one fears. I grow old, and as it gets older, it gets weirder that one's mode of being with others is so deficient. And the veritable bayeuxicness of the suspirations, asseverations and perorations I weave on the screen of my mind and the screen of my computer and the foolish already noted fantasies I feed myself on - do i wish to be free from them? i.e., tho my voice be plangent the now, my stomach be calm. Ultimately this question is pointless. I need to be given the option. Another thing to do: smile more frequently, or at least shake off somewhat the rigor. The rallying cry of the phenomenologist re science doesn't hold here. My face is to be as flaccid as some goo, leaking constant into queasy smile. Constantly have the questions in mind that people tend to ask to other people in social situations which I tend to be in. I begin to bore myself.

Well, liebes tagebuch, a damn fine if without palpable Erfolg day of socializing somewhat clouded - for there needs must be a besmirchment, this being me, Beckett's logicalest character - by scholarly worries at even tide. Hmm. There is a sense that even tho no-one knows who I be, I want to hold things back. But I won't, tho my fingers don't dig my brain. es gibt ein Maedchen. Now I think it's in fact very likely that i'm misinterpreting friendliness for something else, but I think there might be something. For in addition to being a neurotic freak I have some vaguely desirable qualities; it is not inconcievable that she appreciates said qualities. I am prone - wikipedia says so - to way overanalyse things. And so it may be. There are certain facts about her making it a priori unlikely. But - and here comes the Evidenz, tho were it Husserlian! - she, despite having only made my acquaintance recently, sits besides me in class in opposition to people whom she's known longer; and singles me out to talk out when waiting outside said class. That's it. I've said my pathetic piece. I'm glad i've recorded it for posterity and prosperity. Hope bleeds eternal.

Just a little pre-sleep blogly attempt at experimental psychology. Benights these days I tend to engage in fond fantasizing til the wee hours. This is bad because a) it means I sleep not, b) the fantasized in my experience seldom becomes reality. So, to indulge in some very paranoiac thinking, if there is something I want to happen, I shouldn't think about it. I feel the urge to rilkean italicize, for the Rilkean italics are about Leben, Sein. die, die sind. und ich bin nicht. I don't deserve the italicisation. You can feel it; well, I can. He wrings out the word sein. It's painful for him, the pained poet, to poeticize being.

die sind

By all this of course I mean i'm butting up tho not sexily or even really against the spectre of living girls, whose living pains me to no end, the un-murderableinaconcept other people. They suck. And another week roles by. Now heed brain, i'ma stop typing. Stop dreaming!

Xtu Jesu on a bike but i'm woe begirt. It's a dark sunday, i feel like i've been up for ages, i'm tired and have done nothing. My stomach is a ball full of knots. Mond und Licht ist voll Schmerzen unter-gangen, weil i---ich bi--in befangen. Little joy re dating site, much oy. To turn back into myself would appeal, to throw myself into work. I just don't feel built to not be alone. One needs to expose oneself, to peel back a layer of skin, to deprickify the hedgehog self. But it turns, like Homer's gums exposed to wind; an augenblick and ecstasy, un coup d'oeil and agony. There is no settledness, and the stomach won't thank you. And there is nothing ; just hours going to make up empty days, and meaning intentions never to be brought to meaning fulfillment. The monologue ; the words are thought and come a second later, in order predetermined. The thoughts ; a closed circuit on this and on that side of the pillow, sometimes raised, progressing about 6 feet up, into the dark cool toilet, the moon or just night thru the bathroom window, the thoughts cogging onwards.

Another saturday night. Reading Faust anxiously, feeling like i'm wasting my life like him. Flieh! Auf! Hinaus ins weite Land! There was some moderately depressive book whose name i can't remember which i read and there was a line in it, all i want is for this pain to be purposeful. Now if you ignore the overly emotional connotations, that's how I feel. That is, I want the fact that i'm trying to put myself back into the world to bear fruit. It's funny - Faust can't do it himself. In order to live he needs to make a pact. I've been trying to do the same, I partially blush to admit. Specifically, i've been praying: the last refuge of the scoundrel as lisa in the simpsons says. This is a very odd attitude for me to take, as i'm not religious. It means i don't think I can do it. I would never dream of praying for uni success, something within my reach. I think I need to cut this thinking out. By assuming that it's only by something akin to a miracle - a benevolent god existing and choosing to help out in such a situation - that I can live a peopled life, what am i really saying to myself. I'm prejudging it, big style. Another thing that occurs to me is that I need luck. I think, if I'm lucky i'll manage to have an exchange w someone bla bla. Again, in the academic world, I realize that luck is sometimes important, but one tries to work around the effects of fate, by e.g. doing all one possibly can to prevent unluck. I need to realize that to me at least, socializing is akin to a fuck difficult, painful exam. Anyway. Goethe will at least partially keep me company tonight, as my 1st half of a romcom slithers.
It occurs to me that all my eggs shouldn't be placed in the college basket. They've already got gallons of friendly friends. The net may be the way to go. fuck, can't be bothered writing anymore

fled the smog and autocity of the peopled city, languishes homely, onely and lonely, with the constantly prefixed percievedly.
Well. The problem is the lost years, 18-23, prime growing years when my then wispy turd's-beard was speckled with puke from my constant drunkenness. I am an 18 y/o, d.i., in a 25 year old's degenerating corpse. Struck up via dating site a conversation w an interesting lass. sie lebt aber.
Ultimately what can one do? I feel like an ex-con.
But anyway. What I wanted to consider, humble reader, is the following. why do people like e.g. lynch's eraserhead, Beckett's trilogy? There is something there that people feel? There is humanity, even there, among people so disjoint? For whom life is a box, w as much freedom as a coffin. This is it. I'm surrounded by the young and free. It causes me no end of joy to know that there are unyoung, unfree, unborn and yet half dead people, if only in literature. That I am not alone, that life is hiding, squalor; that language constantly fails, sticks in the throat; that to be orthogonal to others is not the province of me alone. Alone, lone, lonely; there is nothing worse than something unique really. What we want is to jar before something, to take a second before realizing that the purported unique thing isn't new, there is a precedent. The absolute scariest thing in the world would be to be completely unique.
This is utter bullshit, an insult to my normally civilised and sharp complaints.

Fucking amazing scene in the wire(s4e9) I watched yesterday. There were these hood kids,in a special class behind their delinquancy, and they won a prize to go out to dinner with their teacher. They were all looking forward to it. Then they went, and they were completely out of their depth. They had never had dinner in a restaurant, and felt deeply uncomfortable with the politeness and helpfulness of the waiters. They walked out of the restaurant in near silence, and as they were being driven home, they began to act up. It reminds me of something my psychoanalysis lecturer said the other day: we can't take too much reality, and the child learns to live in the world by venturing forth into it, then retreating when things get too "real". For the kids, the idea of a fancy restaurant and waiters to serve you and fine food was all well and good; but the reality of it, that was a whole different thing.
Now here's an anecdote. When I started college, there existed something, such that x was a girl, x liked me and indeed i liked x. One day after class we went for a drink (non boozeaholic obv in my case). We had a conversation and shit, and in my opinion, it fell flat; I dun fucked up, to use (non racistly!) an ebonic auxiliary. She continued however to ask me to do things. But partly out of fear that something actually could happen, and partly, I think, because I felt that I had indeed fucked up that drink, that i felt embarassed to be in front of her for revealing my true, percievedly-inadequate self, I refused. Moreover, and here's the kicker, I became rather standoffish, almost unpleasant to her, from having been very interested and comparatively friendly towards her. So I acted, moderately, like a dick, because I felt I had embarassed myself. But it's lamentable; how ( or so, at least, I think; i'm sure the real in this case would be just as disheartening (perfect word, i think - the feeling of the heart sinking)) would i like to be in this situation now!

The relief of having things you have to do

As above. Work has begun in earnest in university, and my thoughts are bending philosophywards, and not so much woe-is-mewards. I did, however -ahem- join a - ahem - dating site. Perhaps such a stigma shouldn't be attached thereto, but anyway. It seems to me like a good, positive, step. Tho i'm not exactly throwing myself into it. I need the intersection of the sets of non-drinkers, social retards and very clever people. It is alas small, if not non-existent. Natheless, hopefully perhaps perhaps some NT, as we call them in aspergese will well initiate something. Of course if they were to, more or less my worst nightmare would be realized, but then what is life if not the realization of one's worst nightmares. And on that portentous note I end.

Time to kill @ home before going back to angstville. It's twee, but i really need to count my blessings, or at least some sort of secular version of that infinitive phrase. I have a good, healthy generally happy family. I do something I love, which absorbs me and which I have the chance to be really good at. I have pleasures: in addition to philosophy, there is literature (reading my namesake recently; on the back of the book it says beckett helped the disenfranchised of society. While I doubt the general truth of this, reading people like Beckett always makes me happy - i feel as disjointed as one of his heroes); there is comedy - how can one not be happy after watching arrested development; there is the fantastic mathematical beauty of well maths and Bach.
Yes, my life isn't perfect, and my stomach will continue to groan and my breath to get caught panicked in my throat; but it's not so bad.

back home for the weekend, and my douleur, it se tient plus tranquille. Three weeks into the new term tho and my best laid plans are coming up arosily. perhaps recursive decomposition holds the key. so i shd concentrate on learning one skill: and the most obvious one is starting up conversation where the option exists. I do this kind of, but could do it more. I'm not filled w my useful dolorous zest; i'm gonna stop writing now.

A nighttime blog. Not quite ready to sleep, thinking to parp my thoughts out that they don't bother me in bed. Well, another week more or less gone. Nothing to show; they could make a romcom of my life. Or at least, the first half of a romcom, tho it would probably test badly, most people knowing that students are awful arseholes, and those who don't probably were awful areshole students and waxed into awful arsehole adults. Y'know, moody shots of me walking thru the dark and noisy populated city, puzzling over some difficult text in an empty library, then coming, as some I would say by Coldplay wank crescendoed, to my dark and empty room.
(little storylet: abalienated from life i went alone to cinema having poorly slept during the day to see funny people ( punctuate as desired (but never double parenthesize)). Now this is a fairly gash film, w/ Sandler dying of cancer until he doesn't. But motherfuck me if I wasn't damn near welling up when the I would say by Coldplay wank started blaring and he was looking at photos or whatever it is dying people do in films. So yeah, the moral of this story is that emotions are stupid)
I'm talking about movies alot these days. Maybe i shd make this a therapy\movie review blog. I do look uncannily like Jon Lovitz's critic.

A daytime blog. Quietly Jesu meine Freude, the motet that could make me christian, plays, w/ city noise accompanying. Profound tiredness of sociality, even family sociality. One of my checkpoints passed empty. Am I actually doing anything? i.e., intentions are good, but one needs some positive action. Perhaps one's self needs to be the first to go. Caught a sliver of Sandra Bullock's odd vehicle 28 days, in which she plays a hard living alkie who learns the true meaning of xmas or some such bullshh. Anyway, in it earnestly madtoothed steve buscemi played a councillor, and he said r.e. dipsos' post-stoppingdrinking social intercourse, get a planet. In a year, get a pet. If, in a couple of years, both are still alive, then have a relationship. Now when I first saw this movie a few years ago a few months dry, I assumed that the relationship was with the plant/pet. But today, I read in a textbook on botany that - and I quote - it is impossible for a human being to have a physical relationship with a plant*. Accordingly, owing to the illegality of beastiality when not in holland, and the film wasn't set in holland, or if it was, no indication of this was given, drawing on Aristotle's distinctions of different types of living soul, I am lead to conclude - quartus non daturwise - that he meant the relationship to be with fellow homo sapiens.
To conclude, i'm tired, and at least pseudo-lonely. And perhaps indeed like iron pyrite under analysis it'll be revealed to be false; but in the absense of such analysis, it feels real.And there seems nothing within my power to do about it. One can align oneself outwards; one can aim the cannon, but a shot needs to be fired eventually. And therein lies the problem.

Goddamn it! Well, contrary to my edict, for all x, Possibilityofsocialization(x) -> Ido(x), there exists an x such that Possibilityofsocialization(x) and ¬ Ido(x). Fuck. The possibility was a night out with my roommates. Not much, but a start. Now I do have real money angsties. But there was revealed in my up to now veneer of sociability the true, rancid grieving heart that weeps within me. And now i'm stressed, and sleeplessness looms, and inadeaquatio mei ad vitam (again, i write wrong in old tongues). Fuck, fuck, fuck. Know that scene in the wire, wherein all that's uttered is fuck; such is my mind now.
Secondly goddamn. I need to learn to initiate conversations. Really; two occasions there were. Without initiations one doesn't even have anywhere to begin. Ah. The relief of release: blogging like an opiate to the veins pacifies.
Is this life? Cf. the summer. There were no such pains. But, there were no such hopes. BUT I NEED TO STOP TURNING AWAY FROM WHAT CAN BE.
Wait: to what extent is my weh a function of percieved changes in the image of me held by others? i.e. the adaequatio merum ( I know there is no gen. plural btw. If ad doesn't take acc i'm well and truly screwed ofc) ad me i.e. the fact that the many adumbrations of myself that are seen will, as their number tends to infinity, settle down on the image of my aforementioned true, rancid grieving heart. For what is to be if not to hide? On that portentous note I end.

To speak frankly, I'm depressed in the mode of protentive presentification. Tuesday - to speak vaguely - offers a permanent possibility of socialization. But it is very possible, by which I mean not that it's likely to happen, but that it's thoroughly besodden with not necessarilyness. Fuck it: there are many things that could occur, sending the plan off track. Even if said things don't occur, the chances of anything happening are pissingly low. And in addition to being a permanent possibility, it's also the sole possibility, and so when anything fails to happen, i know i'ma be buried low rest of the week.
Basically it's an eggs-basket scenario. Ach leiber Herr Kappus! I know what you felt! In fact that gives me a brilliant idea. I'll send a letter to Andrew Motion, bemoaning my life its vast and ghastly etceteras; he'll write back, and in 70 years it'll be published: Letters to a young arsehole.

Tired, tired. For no reason, i've done gaff all all day. So i'm gonna blog a bit, coz it's only 10.03, not really bed time yet. The other day i complained about sensitive teeth since which time they haven't been. It occurs to me to try this with something more serious - the traumatic event of social awfulness that has (arguably) determined the course of much of my life. There were a group of us. I was about 10 maybe. I was more or less the leader of this group, joint oldest, good at sport, clever etc. We were sitting about. Previously one of the members of the group had said something about boats. I can't remember what it was, but I seem to recall it was sexual (interestingly enough I just learnt that a ship is a symbol for the female pudendissimum). I attempted to make a joke about his remark. No-one got it. Because it was related to something sexual, and I was bashful, I attempted to skirt around the topic. People urged me to explain, but I didn't. In attendance were our older neighbour, to whom I looked up to. I remember him laughing incomprehendingly, and his brother came along, and he did to. I can still in fact remember his laughing face. It wasn't by any means cruel laughter; it was simply incomprehending (is this even a word?). I remember my face burning.
That face burning feeling behind ( i use this again; it's a wireism meaning on account of) saying something that isn't understood is, I think, always burned into my mind. And it perpetuates itself - so anxious am I before saying something, so torn, it rather falls out of my mouth like fish flopping out of the trouser leg of a man who fell in a river, falteringly and stutteringly.
Is this an honest account? Will I see any improvement?
i.e. This happened; Can i put it behind me. It has indeed concretized into a personality trait; i view myself thus and project my self-understanding outwards, and accordingly in due course people do indeed come to understand me thus. Is writing dynamite?

Well, nocturnal angsties are upon me, as dreary I mourn the passing of a friday eve einsam in my einsamkeit, w/ sensitive teeth. Poorly slept again fantasizing. Am I lonely or worried that people percieve me as lonely? Most likely the latter. Spent an hour there in the library writing a short story. It is 8.13. The noise of the city, und die, die leben (that's a Rilkean italicisation there btw). Really, being is so hard it should be conjugated much more irregularly than it in fact is. I suggest I ach, you muck, he/she/it durks, we achen, you (pl) argt, they goan (pronounced g-own.). Oh for a healthy mind in a healthy body, and not this stomach!

Inadaequatio rerum ad intellectum(?)

I should stop writing in languages I don't know, but I thought this was a rather fierce\savage\deadly pun, whichever of these causes less vomit to tickle the throat w its upward trickle. But that is the truth. I spend all night fondly fantasising about all these great social interactions ima rock like a madman, then poorly slept an odd word shatters my fragile emotions. Real splurge of anxiety thruout day. Reading on psychoanalysis. Scary; we don't want to know ourselves. We have no foundations. We don't think, in order not to die. The repressed. The problem is, I think, that having given myself a goal even the possibility of the attainment of which lies necessarily beyond my control, I find myself thwarted when luck doesn't fall. I'm old; the skills I seek should have been learnt long ago. Among my classmates it's second nature.
Bleh. The anxiety like a pimple has cleared up somewhat. The key is: don't give up hope; luck may arrive - punctuation should be used ----------------( and the dash should be just as long as old Soren's) sparingly.

little blogleinette

Well, first week back at uni, back home. It has been quite good. I have been considerably more personable than usual. But it still hasn't led outside the classroom. There has been lots of anxiety, but that's ok. per ardua ad astra. I'm sort of feeling hopeful about things, tho my stomach growls, woul rather be left in peace. My goal for the next week is to somehow build on this. Direct my attentions to a couple of people, see if i can't present myself well. if i get invited somewhere that i cd concievably go to, do so. Be more talkative at dinner. Smile more. Don't get jarred behind my behindness ( that wasn't meant to be intelligible to anyone). O life! O moeglichkeiten!

The old stomach cramper

Well. My plan for socialization is continuing apace, to the detriment of my nerves. I've tried taking some valerian; maybe i'll get rhodiola tomorrow. Every day... perhaps it will coalesce into a habit, I won't be able to go on w/out talking to people. My inadequacies pain me. That which is so easily accomplished by others, simple idle chatter, entails for me an effort of will so great. And in preparation for this effort of will, which may it must not be forgot be called upon at anytime, I must be a coiled spring, belly-sick and unfocused. Life is damnably hard. Family suffers. Health worries always. Sleeeping well. Chance for intellectual giantry. And maybe my efforts will one day be rewarded. The existentialists say that the genius of proust is in his novels; my personality is in my interactions. But no - in fact so no i'm probably misunderstanding them - my personality is in my stomach.
Making my bed there, it occurred to me to say that its time like these that one can be glad life is finite. But does this make any sense, i.e. can I feel the finiteness of my life, that it will one day end. Quaere.

it's a new dawn, it's a new day

Well, with the roar of traffic but thankfully not people without I write, in my new place. Good roommates and a tiring day; a room better than imagined. A bit overstimulated to sleep just yet i think. Nothing really more to report; an unnoteworthy day inspite of its noteworthiness. This is really only posted coz I said i'd post. Perhaps it's unnoteworthyness is infact noteworthy; perhaps i'm tireder than i had imagined.

last night

Well, it bes the final day of my summer holiday, and for posterity's sake i thought it were appropriate to blog about it. It has been a good summer, that is, intellectually satisfying. I hope moreover that some seeds of change have been sprinkled, some spermata zoein ( wrong infinitive?). To be more social, is the easy to type but hard to enact rallying cry of the next few months. Firstly among the new things to be considered is roommates, which is vital to one's general comfort in foreign lands. Secondly tho probably should be firstly is the wellbeing of family.
I'm not really getting anywhere describing the inner world. Let's try to outer: it is very dark for 8pm. My hands are somewhat shaking perhaps owing to over smoking, over sugaring and undereating. My newly tidied room is very light. The big slightly open window brings a few sounds of cars in a windless night.
There exists, one hundred odd miles away, my appointed room. It is on a busy street, hopefully sheltered from traffic sounds. There also exists my roommates to be. There exists the library, where I will go everyday, and the little section of seats where I tend to sit. It will be open, filled with a few conscientious ones.
Perhaps i'll post tomorrow, fill in the details; satisfy the anti-realists among my gargantuan readership, who won't be happy with these bald there exists.

O taraxic life

Ahhh life is complex, as is my stomach, tightly knot in anxiety. I am between two habits - the comfy summer habit soon to be as gone as summer evenings, and the new, back to uni habit, which means people: to be surrounded w people, to live among people, and hopefully to try and be one. Of course i'm calling it a habit; but it'll only be a habit once i've started. But amongst the ideal entities of this world, a habit is laid out for me. And it's my ignorance of how it will turn out to be that causes my anxiety, or at least one half thereof. The other is altogether more intractable, dealing with a family member in a similarly shaped bind. To bear one's own anxieties is tolerable; to be aware of another's is not so easy.
In Beckett's book on Proust he relates Marcel's habit-woe as he struggles to acclimatize himself to a new room. He is away from home; everything is unfamiliar; he sees the world thru different, undeadened by habit eyes. And what is the world he sees? Suffering; unconceptualized life, actually seeing things is to suffer ( he owes plenty to Schopenhauer does Beckett here; and he mocked this book is later life, but he did call his trilogy "godawful" or something like that, so he may not be the best self-critic.). Or at least so say Proust, Beckett and me. It is of course highly concievable that we're each of us judging life from neurotical dispositions (from body parts? My stomach is the centre of my reactions to the world, Beckett had a dodgy ticker, what about Proust?). Or again, perhaps it's an aspergian thing ( Unstoppable brilliance, a book by michael Fitzgerald( i think, can't be arsed checking) conjectures that old SB was an aspie). Don't know abour Proust tho.
Because the vast majority of peeps, I imagine, don't undergo such torments when changing, such wrenching anxiety.
Meeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

As was perhaps sadly predictable, my blogging activity has fallen away. However, things have been at least periodically vaguely interesting. Well, that's a damned exaggeration, but anyway. Last week I was forced to go to a party; not a young person party admittedly, but strangers standing talking in a room at least, and all the rest of the rancid monkey jism entailed by any instantiation of partyhood. And it was... exhausting, but not as depressing as it could have been. I rediscovered that I have a slight capacity for forced civility. If I could harness more effectively this rather puny power then indeed to be reckoned with in society a force I could be. Specifically I can think of requisite shitty jokes and requisite shitty small talk, and give a relatively convincing impression of a zoon politikon. The problem is, like a man wearing a drawn on beard for disguise under hot interrogation lights, it soon wears off. When this happened during the party, it being located in a place and staged by a host known to me I could slope off to a bedroom and lie down. However, should I desire to harness my meagre skills elsewhere, I would need to arrange it in timed slices, so that the disguise would hold out.
Secondly of all, this very day, nay nary a 1hr a go, I entertained en famille some strangers. Amongst them was an infant. I quite like children; they're less boring and bored than adults, they're more interested in thgins. Also the human adult male among them was a nice and funny guy, and I think I socialized relatively well.
Now I desire some form of sociality. This we can take as given. And so, perhaps, little by little I am heading towards a less avoidant ( tho in fairness both incidents above were nigh on impossible to shirk) Seinsmodalitaet. Of course, it were surely cloying to end on such a positive note, a problem which this sentence has disposed of.

Heavy dinner post

Well, i have nothing better to do owing to a late big dinner, which has sufficiently fatigued me that i'm not able to concentrate on what i'm reading ( completeness of 1st order logic in Computability and Logic by Boolos and Jeffrey), so I thought I would post in my little cared for, little pored on, like Milton's Tetrachordon (see this, for his funny xenophobic little poem), blog. And indeed, if this is to be my thought sink, my thoughts are fairly contented at the mo, owing in part to my discovery of a great site stripgenerator.com, which allows one to quickly make three panel cartoons using a database of graphics. It's really great, and has served as a creative outlet for me since i discovered it 2 days ago. Creation is an excellent activity for those prone to introspection (prolly that's what got God going, if he's like Aristotle's bloke thinking thinking thinking). One can people a world, and one's own peoplelessness and worldlessness is forgotten for a while.
Hopefully this little spurt of logorrhea has knocked away the dietary cobwebs, and now I can go back to my canonical derivations.

Stupid early sabbath

Urrgh, very poor night's sleep, stormy without and sick within. Unslept I always feel disconnected from the world, in a way I struggle to describe, because it's very rare that one actually feels connected to the world, in the sense of sensitive to surroundings rather than to one's inner voice. But tiredness\sickness\boredom, three similar things for me leave one even more disconnected. Perhaps disconnected from one's self, from the voice. Yeah, that may be it. The big tell-tale sign of the three above is lack of interest in things. My whole life revolves around my interests, so it's not a great feeling.

On a different matter, the past few days have seen the very welcome return of my being able to write creatively. When I was young I used to write a lot of poetry, which I enjoyed doing even if it was shit, which it in general was. I think I felt more alive in those days; i had a few friends and there were more possibilities. Now, the lack of being able to drink means that the possible isn't so possible, because shy and sober don't mix too well.
Nevertheless, I had some sort of minor modal epiphany the other day. I'm not sure of the actual propositional content of this epiphany, if any there were, but I don't know, something reawakened in me, and i have been steadily writing prose. This is both enjoyable and therapeutic; it lets thoughts get filtered out in a more interesting way, and I have been thought clogged of late.
Next time on this very blog: religion and metaphorical mental words.

10 minutes ago

A slow, dull sunday. How much of life is wasted with this just slow heavy feeling of a too big dinner, and mental dullness? I guess boredom is the word; the things that hold appeal don't hold appeal. The sun shines against the bedroom wall; a muffled public concert is happening nearby, wind soughs thru trees. The various things I would do at this point are a) Read a novel. But the novel I'm struggling thru at the mo, Piercing by Murakami, isn't very good. b) Read some philosophy or logic. But i'm too tired. c) Play Final Fantasy IV. But it feels too nice at day to stare at a small screen. d) Eat or drink. I've just eaten and drank. And so comes last e) Write in blog. But i have nothing interesting to write about, and thus to do so would be pointless in the extreme. It would however waste some time. That's what I'll do then.

I'm obsessed with observing street alcoholics. This is partly, no doubt, owing to the fact that I, despite my tender years am\was (delete according to semantic taste) a "recovering" alcoholic. What I think fascinates me, and what was an important factor in my own dipsomania, is the idea that the alcoholic is like a piece of performance art, with himself as the canvas. Again in my own case, at that point of my life i didn't want to do anything, but I had all this energy, so it turned inwards, and so I gained a goal, that of self-destruction. I was and remained fascinated by the physical specimen of alcoholism; the other day I was walking near the sea, by posh seaside houses. It was a nice day, hot but thanks to the sea air not unbearably so, and fresh with morning. And far ahead of along the deserted road I noticed the shuffling gait of the chronic drinker. It's called peripheral neuropathy, I think - the nerves in one's feet are destroyed by alcohol, and so it causes pain to walk normally, and so one walks on the balls of the feet. This particular guy looked really bad, I saw as I got closer. For each step he took forward, his body would compel him to shuffle to the side, so he had the uneven pace and progression of a zombie. A zombie is exactly right - what fascinates me in the alcoholic is the non-humanity. One becomes both internally and externally non-human. Internally one is reduced to an animal; one is reduced to seeking alcohol like an animal seeks food - higher mental faculties apart perhaps from guilt are shut off. Externally, one becomes, i think, recognizably different - there is something otherwordly in the eyes of an addict, again perhaps something animalistic
( I'm reminded of Rilke:
MIT allen Augen sieht die Kreatur
das Offene. Nur unsere Augen sind
wie umgekehrt und ganz um sie gestellt
als Fallen, rings um ihren freien Ausgang.
Was draußen ist, wir wissens aus des Tiers
Antlitz allein; denn schon das frühe Kind
wenden wir um und zwingens, daß es rückwärts
Gestaltung sehe, nicht das Offne, das
im Tiergesicht so tief ist. Frei von Tod.

The creature gazes into openness with all
its eyes. But our eyes are
as if they were reversed, and surround it,
everywhere, like barriers against its free passage.
We know what is outside us from the animal’s
face alone: since we already turn
the young child round and make it look
backwards at what is settled, not that openness
that is so deep in the animal’s vision. Free from death.)

So yeah, there you go.

Swanning about

Well, the thing below I had to talk about turns out not to have been as interesting as I thought when written down.
I find that being differently socially abled, but nevertheless desiring, occasionally, social interaction leads to a weird way of conceiving others. There are two aspects to another person - that person themself, and the idea that you have of them. And one can think of living as going out into the world, getting a bunch of ideas like a photographer taking a bunch of photos before retiring to his darkroom to work on them. Or at least, that's how I conceive of things (and also interestingly a bunch of philosophers - see the representative theory of perception - and also closer to the theme, Proust)(I'm also reminded of David Baddiel's joke that he only has sex in order to have some material to fuel his wanks later). That is to say, I seek to reduce other people to my idea of them - in other words to come to possess them ( Proust's Swann does this), but reducing them to what they are not, a constantly changing thing to an idea which can indeed be 'viewed' from a number of perspectives but which is nevertheless unchanging.
To press home the point i've poorly and bile risingly pseudo-philosophically put, I want to narrate something that happened to me recently.
There was this girl whom I liked from afar. I remained entirely ignorant of her and was happy in this. Occasionally I would fantasize about the marvellous life we could have together (there comes that bile again). Then by a stroke of luck, I found her on the net. She had a blog, and I read it, and she seemed much cooler than I possibly could have anticipated. But this shook me somewhat. She became a real person rather than an idea.
Hmmmmm, this isn't convincing. Surely I was shook not because my idea of her proved inadequate, but very simply because by her becoming real she became unattainable, because real people tend to be a field in which i'm none too strong.
...Yes, even rewritten there is little sense to be made from all this.
Anyway, i've done more than enough navel gazing for the day. The incompleteness of peano arithmetic, and a post-prandial walk on a muggy day await.

Intro

well. I'm in my mid-20s, male, and the best 4 syllable adjective to describe me would be aspergian. Perhaps better and briefer would be autistic, paying attention to the etymology - selfic. Tho these are just labels, they are in fact in my case extraordinarily fitting labels - if one were to look at a definition of asperger's, one could get a pretty good idea of who I am, and how I appear. Who I am: obsessive, deeply interested in many things, mentally energetic. How I appear: Like the introverted mathematician in the joke, I stare at my own feet. I make little eye contact. Even weird details that I thought were eccentricities peculiar to me and me alone, such as a pretty rigid face, turn out to be features findable in Aspergianites.
The foregoing makes me sound like I define myself in terms of this syndrome, with which incidently i haven't even been formally diagnosed. This isn't the case: it just gives a good impression of who I am fairly snappily.
I am one of the shy people. This is disturbing to say the least, as friendship or girlfriendship has never really figured in my life up to now. I think of social interaction in terms of a switch, which needs to be pressed prior to engagement. So i'll be accosted by someone when I'm walking round the small picturesque campus where I study, and i'll need to make the transition from my own thoughts to suitable conversation. So in the little room of my mind I search for the switch, but struggle to find it. Meanwhile, my unswitched self is attempting some sort of appropriate sociality. But its really inept and something ridiculous will come out of my mouth, like someone will ask me how I am and instead of saying fine, i'll say, Oooh, touch of diarrhea this morning. Not appropriate. Meanwhile I'm searching for the switch, the franticness causes me literally to sweat. The conversation soon dies a miserable death, and i'm shakenly walking away with the switch is found, turned, and I think of some great stuff to say to the person. I am l'esprit de l'escalier, were it to be personified in a rather doughy, sweaty corpse.
I had another thing to write about today, but i think i've done enough. I hope I have the resolve not to give up this malarkey, it seems like a good idea in general.