Into the void...

2002-07-22

10:37 a.m.

I appear to be slumping back into an "I don't care about anything" phase. This happens every so often, so I should probably be used to it. Perhaps I am used to it, and I'm just concerned because these "I don't care about anything" phases never turn out well.

Yesterday, Rob and I went to see a Weezer concert. I had bought tickets to the concert for Rob for his birthday because Dashboard Confessional was opening for them, and he has recently had quite a thing for Dashboard Confessional (who, by the way, performed quite well). So, we headed out to the Tweeter Center in Mansfield for the concert, and, by the time we got there, I was so worked up from the drive that all I could think about was getting a beer. So, I went to buy a beer.

They wouldn't SELL me a beer.

Apparently, they don't sell beer to anyone under twenty-five unless they have an in-state license. Well, I have yet to update my license from the Georgia one, so I only had that and my passport. When they turned down my license and told me I had to be twenty-five, I said, "What about a passport?" and they said, "That would be fine." So I gave them the passport, and they wouldn't take THAT because it's expired.

Listen, when you go to get a driver's license, an expired passport is acceptable for identification and verification of your birthdate. If you have a passport, even an expired one, that's the only form of identification they require. And these people last night wouldn't sell me a goddamn beer because my passport is out of date and my license is from Georgia instead of Massachusetts.

I'm twenty-four years old!

I was so angry about them not selling me a beer that I could barely see straight for the next half hour or so. That, of course, was piled on top of the fact that I was already worked up from the drive, since driving makes me nervous. I swear to god, if those tickets hadn't been Rob's birthday present, I think I would've argued with them until I got thrown out of the arena because I just don't care about anything right now. If they don't want to sell me a beer, I'll give them a pain in the ass until they realize that I'm either right about their policy being absurd or I'm completely insane.

Either way, I'd feel better.

I don't know if it's this time of year or what, but every so often, for no apparent reason, I get these spurts of "I don't care about anything," and I just want to get trashed off my ass and make a fool of myself until I pass out in the middle of the street and get run over by a truck. I just don't care. I want something to happen, ANYTHING to happen. I don't give two shits about whether something good or something bad happens, but if nothing interesting starts happening in my life really fucking soon, I'm going to lose my mind even more than it's already gone.

Why?

Why do I feel like I have to be risking my life and the sanctity of my steady job in order to make my life more interesting? I guess it's because I hate life so much, and it seems far too boring to hold my interest unless something either terrific or terrifying happens. This "I don't care about anything" phase has brought an awful lot of interesting stories into my life. And what is life about, if not good stories to be told until the end of time?

I have had a very interesting life.

I have done everything from performing onstage in front of thousands of people to stripping to my underwear and swimming in the Mediterranean Sea in the middle of the night. I have done everything from dating a homeless guy to taking some inspiringly delicious illegal drugs. I have gone on a Shaman vision quest only to survive an attack from the Lochness Monster. I've seen the inside of my arms and legs after slicing through them with knives. I've "met" men in several different countries just to compare the differences in technique.

And to me, life is boring to the point of tears.

I've wandered through Venice, Paris, and London. I've seen some of the world's greatest works of art. I've spent most of one summer in a small town in Italy, eating their amazing food every day and getting drunk on their fabulous wine every night. I've met some of the world's leading figures in the field of operatic study.

I've thrown all caution to the wind, quit a steady job, and moved a thousand miles away to move in with a guy I knew for less than a year over e-mails, phone calls, and a total of about five visits. I've sworn to meet new people in a new part of the country, take things as they come and make it work the best for me no matter what it takes for nine months before going through it all again.

I've experienced orgasms that literally made me go into overstimulated shock. I've mixed drugs just to see what they did together. I've gotten drunk at most of the jobs I've had just to see what would happen. I've put my entire life on the web just to see what kinds of reactions I would get. I've flaunted my craziness to the world. I've had the police show up at my apartment at 8 o'clock in the morning to question me about whether or not I was plotting to kill my roommate.

And I am BORED OUT OF MY MIND.

When I was in tenth grade, I swore to myself that I would never again complain that I was bored because it was at a time when I was complaining about life being boring that my life was irreversibly altered by a fatal car accident that permanently scarred my psyche. I thought that the incident must somehow have been related to the fact that I was complaining I was bored when I shouldn't have been.

Well, fuck that.

Life is intolerably boring. I'm just here passing time until I die, and the fact that I have to wake up everyday to portray this stupid creature in a regular office job makes me physically sick to my stomach. I'm desperately in love with Rob and I'm glad I have him here with me to share in the misery of our days, but I'm getting impatient to just get something ACCOMPLISHED.

I'm feeling very pressed for time in finishing my novel. For some reason that I can almost put my finger on, I'm feeling like there's a dark, foreboding figure of death at my back, and I can't escape it. Try as I may to ignore or drink away the monster, the fact remains that I am being stalked as I continue through life, and I don't care enough about anything to bother worrying about it tremendously. I'm just continually working on my novel at a reasonable pace, and if I don't finish it, I no longer care because even the perfect novel to explain the meaning of life for all future generations wouldn't be enough to cure me of my infernal boredom.

Why do I bother?

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