Untitled Rant

I am deeply jealous of the people who really "found" themselves in high school or in college or at their first real job or whatever.  The people who really bloomed in some way.  I think we all know people who were quiet or shy or awkward and then after some big transition in their life came back all confident and strong and abnormally full of joy.  

In case you couldn't tell, that never happened to me.  I guess to a point maybe it did when I first moved out, but if anything, I became more awkward and less confident as a result, so I don't think that really counts.  And you can tell I never really found myself because, well, think about it: I don't have hobbies.  I don't have interests outside my work.  Well, I write.  But that's not a hobby.  I don't write because I want to or because I like it or anything, but rather because I need to.  It fulfills something basic in me that I can't explain.

I've said it from the very beginning.  I write for myself.  Not for anybody who reads this.  Especially an important note for the people in my life: I don't give a flying fuck if you read this blog or not.  It's not being written to inform you of my emotional state or my sanity at any given time (although it may be good for determining that on occasion).  You don't have to read it.  Especially since none of you talk to me about anything I write here anyway, so it doesn't matter if you read it or not or if I know whether you did or not.

I don't care.  Maybe that's just the mood I've gotten into over the course of the past week, but I'm starting to realize that there's very little anyone can do to hurt me anymore.  I stopped being afraid of physical pain a while ago, so the only thing I feared was emotional pain.  And it's becoming pretty damn difficult to inflict that on me, and I'm not sure if that means I'm getting stronger or something (hint: I doubt it) or if I've just grown numb.

But again, you don't care.  It's strange to me that I still write this for an audience even though there really isn't me.  Maybe I never moved on from that adolescent belief in the imaginary audience--that there are constantly people around you who actually (get this) care what you do and how you look.  I know there aren't, not in the way the imaginary audience implies, anyway, but I insist on writing as though there are.

In case you couldn't tell, that would be my self-confidence getting washed further down the drain.  It seems to have started making progress on that descent over the past three weeks, rapidly accelerating as it went.  What is the metaphorical gravity here?  Possibly (bringing this back full circle) that numerous (I'm not going to count) major life transitions later, I still haven't "found" myself in any meaningful way.  So I'm going to grow old and be pathetic and when I'm not busily working, I'll be sitting at home surrounded by a large gathering of dogs I will own, potentially crying as I spill my woes onto the internet.  Yep.

This is quite possibly the worst and most self-centered post I have ever written, and I hope it will be the worst I ever write.  More reason to hate me?  Probably.  Do I care?  No, no I really don't.  I won't apologize for feeling like shit and putting it on the internet because I didn't ask you to read this.  So there.