i am having a really good time being the only unemployed idiot at square central station

once again i find myself the villain of a party / social gathering

maybe i am also the villain of my own life


i am writing this from a bathroom fyi

Not even the 100 miligrams of synthetic whatever can suppress the Mr. Hydeian anguish that is presently chewing away at my sad old brain.

One bit of good news: I no longer need to sabotage anything for myself. Sooner or later something or someone will reliably show up and do that for me.

I feel like the Grim Reaper cracked open my heart like a walnut and threw up inside.

My life was even then gloomy, ill-regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage. I made friends with no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at anyone, and I was perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a queer fellow, but even looked upon me— I always fancied this— with a sort of loathing.

I was morbidly sensitive, as a man of our ages should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest embarrassment.

Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no one like me and I was unlike any one else. “I am alone and they are every one,” I thought—and pondered.

From that it is evident I was still a youngster.

The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to go to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill. But all at once, apropos to nothing, there would come a phase of skepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would reproach myself with being romantic. At one time I was unwilling to speak to any one, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply affected, and got out of books. . . .


Here, at the apex of loneliness, I drive to a forest on New Year’s Eve to get drunk and punch trees.


oh thank god all the guests for my new year’s party have arrived

you go to sleep and you dream and all those damn faces follow you there.