The reason I have not written in a timely fashion today is not the pile of work that I have been sifting my way through. That pile exists, and I have been getting things done, trying not to hyperventilate, but it is not the reason. The reason is not my propensity for planning and infrequency of doing. I have been planning up a storm today. There has been the fun kind of planning, like devising strategems for buying shredded coconut. I am allergic to coconut, but that is not going to stop me from my ultimate mission. Will I need gloves? A face mask? Time will tell. There has also been the not-so-fun flavor of planning, tasks which fall into the category of more likely to be shirked. The reason is not the guilt that overcomes me when I do not tend to what I need to get done. I feel that guilt, but it never stops me from writing, unfortunately for anyone who reads, since I then whinge on in a self-pitying fashion about my own inadequacies. And yes, I am aware of how incredibly fun that is to read.
No. The reason I have not found myself able to write today is so stupid that I have been embarassed, nay, ashamed to state my confession. You see, I have nothing witty or angry to write about Lost. Perhaps I should try to concoct some theory regarding why Kate's mother appears in a flashback scene with Sawyer. Maybe I should gripe about the continued underutilization of 'Veeny.
But I find myself unable to do it, and do you want to know why? The why is the truly pathetic part. Because I find myself depressed by the show. Not because it sucks (which it really has, of late). Not because I am allowing this show to influence my mood (which it really ought not to be able to do). No. A much more shameful reason. The bro-seph would shake his head at this admission of mine and say, "You do realize it is only a television show, right?"
Yes, I do. And I know I must be unhinged for somehow finding myself entangled in this mostly nonsensical show. But it just dawned on me last night, after over three decades on this planet: sometimes the jerk really is a jerk.
This fills me with a sense of loneliness that is undoubtedly unreasonable. But if the good guy is really one's best bet, folks, I am in big trouble. A jerk like me cannot really deal with good people. I find them self-righteous, and well, far too good- wtf am I supposed to do with that?
By tomorrow, I am sure I will have successfully reprogrammed myself, to believe that, for every jerk, there is an anti-hero. But for now, I cannot stop wondering: why is the jerk unable to bring himself to be the anti-hero? Oh, and that question right there- that is the reason it takes me light years to give up on people that seem like undisputed lost causes.
And thus, a little more insight explaining how extensively screws are loose in my head.
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