Boy Bewildered

Right.
I have many, many thoughts. I cannot transfer them properly to blog, but I may try.

Well, as I left the house with a spring in my step and a knife in my pocket, I thought. I thought about the possible reasons for me self-harming. I thought about possible scenarios.

I also thought grimly of my girlfriend deciding to visit the most handsome male friend I have to stay over on the eve of valentine's day.

It doesn't surprise me, and nothing will happen. i still would like to submit her to physical punishment though.

No not because she's not allowed to have a life. Because she patently ignores me and treats me like shit.

She teases me with tales of her sexuality: playing kissing games or inventing double-intruding toothbrushes with friends. She mentions details of her sexuality and her frank embracement of it in other circumstances in what appears to be just a way to make me feel shit about my own power. She has everything over me, because I let her. I let her completely run things for me, and now I'm paying.

Of course she doesn't think like this: she's not a sadist or clever enough.

I want her to find me in a hospital bed, as I sit up with a lacerated arm. I want her to cry, and to wonder why 'her darling boyfriend' would do such a thing. I want her to know that she can't treat me like she does, and I want to blame her completely. I realise my attention-seeking needs, I just can't fulfill them by myself.

I want her to find the cuts on my arm, and for me to name each one as an injustice she has done to me. THIS ONE IS FOR THIS, BITCH. I want her to see the effect of herself.

I want her to know who I truly am, who I truly try to be, and what I truly feel.

i want her to truly love me, but she won't. She 'doesn't believe in it'
I'd rather one of us died.

IQ and SES (socio-economic status) broadly predict how happy you will be in life, or how good your life will be (as i undertsand it).

My IQ is sufficient to be considered... very good. Although the various aspects of it, for me, are very varied, my overall IQ is ok.

My SES is almost ridiculous: basically, your father's and mother's education as well as their jobs combine. They were both educated at the highest level.

So, as an average member of this group, I would be happy. Or at least moreso than other people not so fortunate.

I however wonder, purely from a anecdotal point of view, that this may not be true. I do not know many people who are happy in my circumstances.

I'm not: I wouldn't sacrifice what I have, but... Somehow. My social life is completely inadequate, and I don't make the grade on so many accounts of fitting in.

I know it's more fashionable not to: but I also know that it is much, much harder. I've been moved around a LOT in my life, or at least the early part. It gets lonesome to wait for someone like me, to like me.

So I don't. I don't know anyone, really, who is like me. Well, I know a couple like me in attitude or in intelligence. Just no one so broadly... similar... to me.

I always felt that there had to be someone like me, to share my life with. But I realise that there isn't, and the best I can hope for is what I come across.

Sometimes I fell so inferior: I feel it is almost preordained for me to succeed in whatever I try. It is possible for me to do anything requiring mental application. In theory I KNOW, that I'm not the cleverest man to set foot on this planet. I can admit that to myself. I can put those people in another box, one labelled: no competition. Franco is best in his group.

People around me don't help either. they put ME in a separate box, labelled no competition. They don't know who I am.

I sometimes wonder whether my parents know me. I should imagine, that I am broadly similar to each of them, and that they can imagine what I'm like. And they know from discussions, etc..
But do they know what I think about, could I share that with them? The answer, is no.

That is what my whole life has been spent looking for: that's why I come in the room, and ask sincerely of my girl: 'you know, when you look in a mirror and there is NOTHING that makes that face you, that reflects how you see the world, that relates to your persona?'

She looks blankly, and hides under the duvet that's spread across the floor. Smiles childishly and tries to initiate play.

But I don't want to. I want her to come to me and throw me to the floor.

I sit here drenched in cold sweat.

I am not good enough.

Not good enough, have not trained hard enough.

Fencing failure, absolute and painfully, abjectly, inferior.

Very happy today. Wait, no I'm not, I'm absolutely and resolutely miserable. Or am I?

With my schoolmate's, it is good at the moment. An enjoyable lunchtime debate of looks v personality... Hey I didn't even feel above it for once; I'm proud of myself.

With family, I guess it's ok... Well apart from the late night raucous fucking of the parents. I can't stand it: I know, objectively, that they do. I don't care. BUT I would like to be able to get some sleep, especially as I've already been forced to bed.

With girlfriend it is shitey. She told me her family was a bit fucked at the mo': not what was going on.
She said it was over. Her family's arguments that is. And now... she's acting weirdly.
Not like she ever made time anyway: I was always at her beck and call. But now... I have't seen her in 2 weeks? Probably. We've barely spoken, and when we do it's stuttering and nothing. Argumentative was one thing was we never were: and now she's petty and triumphalist.
She knows I'm more intelligent than her, but I never thought she resented it: now she's bitter, and doesn't want to know any of my marks for mocks...
Oh well...

And R. Some (other) girl I met at a party. We really fucked each other up good for a while. Then we haven't spoken in months. Every word is acrid, like it's a battle to think of a pleasantry.
So I talked to her a minute the other day. Told her, comically, that I had 'attacked myself with a knife'. Which I had.
She's right: I'm an attention-seeking little fuck.

I have been trying to improve myself, bodily.

I do a routine. I enjoy it: today I interspersed sweat with reading an anti-vivisection book I was lent.

I put on weight and muscle very, very easily. I love it. A pound a day from about 20 minutes exercise. For over a week.

The thing is, it doesn't help with anything practical. I look better. I can now lift myself many times using my triceps primarily. But when I fence, I'm as stiff as a board. I'm stiff so bad, I can't do anything. My shoulder lifts my whole arm, leaving my other muscles to rot. I need more flexibility. I need someone to tell me what to do, and whip me if I don't.

The muscles are for fencing, my sport.

I'm getting more worried about the susceptibility of my sub-conscious self to external influences.

All my dreams basically reflect whatever I have been reading/thinking about that day.

Last night's dream was... disturbing?

I was playing counterstrike in a darkened room, with my ex, on live.

It was odd though. I was in first person (this is normal in my dreams), playing. Normally in a dream I may use a controller while actually being in the body: same here, I think...
Anyway it was a game, and I spawned in a doorway. After one death, I got the hang of it. I saw a toilet cubicle open slightly: I waited behind it, breath drawn. I readied the knife, then assaulted the boy coming out: Knife in front of throat, commando style.
He wouldn't just die though: I had to saw at his head, and whenever I was playing it took SUCH effort to kill someone: it was really hard...

Then I stopped playing, in the darkened room.
My ex was near me: it was so sensual. I pulled her down to me: we kissed.

It was the worst kiss ever. The worst dream kiss ever, the worst ever kiss anywhere.
She machine-gunned my mouth.
But I didn't care.

Then I woke up.

The dream of last night was long. And involved an unprecedented amount of Thierry Henry. But I never actually saw him for real, oddly enough. In my dream that is.

So it started by me, in a swamp or something. I hear an announcer repeatedly announcing Thierry Henry's full name, but with multiple middle names, including 'Carmen' (huh?). He really made a big deal about the middle names...
Tthen I started work-shadowing Arsene Wenger, and supervised a training session. With just Jens Lehmann and Francesco Fabregas.
After that was done, Wenger told Cesc I'd be playing with them on Sunday, 'cos he couldn't think of anything else for me to do. I was so pleased, but told Cesc that I was crap. He didn't mind.
I ran after Jens, but he didn't wanna talk about anything really.

The next part of my dream I was on the moors, in some sort of expediton. There were many ancient artefacts, that we kept finding. One was a videotape of an old advert. It was Henry, racing Ronaldo and Owen for a ball. They raced for it through crowded streets, and it looked like the best ad I could ever imagine. Then, the ball went under a market stall.
Ronaldo then did an amazing commando roll across the table, while Henry used his power to simply burst through the centre (there were two tables wedged together). Then Henry was about to edge it, when something happened. Someone must have obstructed him or something, because he turned and gesticulated at the camera wildly, and that's where the ad ended. It must have been an outtake or something, I thought.
And there was something else about Henry. He had no shirt, as befitted the advert. But he looked, well, maigre was the only word that came to mind. He was practically emaciated. It was disturbing: he had kind of an anger in his eyes.

Hey.
I have been a-ruminating on pain versus pleasure: specifically self-harm versus masturbation.
Well, what are they both? Both are undertaken by oneself, upon oneself.
There is a large area for overlap.

Masturbation is a pleasurable, shall we say, pasttime when taken in moderation.
Yet all too many people, in the experience of mine, become addicted. The ritual of pleasure, from beginning to ecstatic climax, becomes devaluing.
The best article I have seen on this is actually about porn: but the symptoms seem to be the same -- the devaluing and increased search for new interesting things.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/weekend/story/0,3605,1079016,00.html

The limited experience I have of self harm is similar. I have thought to myself of the dangers about the addiction of it. It requires a conscious effort not to think: hey, it's nothing bad.

I think that the experience of the knife is bad, was bad. The same as I feel that the first time of discovery of my post-childhood self was.
Both may continue to be a spiralling problem.

But i think I've got it under control.

The only thing that I can know though, is that to me, they are one and the same.

Did I mention that I was cutting my arms yesterday?
I had never done it before.
I have no idea of the rationality behind it. If I had been allowed I would've just been online. But I was in bed.
The first thing is that my knife was kinda blunt. So it took a lot of work to cut myself.
Then it stung.
And no one noticed.

I wanted them to. I wanted my mother, who works with people who have been sectioned, to notice and ask, and for me to look at her and say: what? I can express myself if I want. And to see her fear.

It was purely out of... boredom? It can't have been. I don't know. There must be some sort of underlying... Cause.

Idle fantasy no.2:
I feel a lump. I get it diagnosed.
Testicular cancer.
Wow, I think. I am to have an operation, with 15% chance of failure.
I say my goodbyes to the people in my life, tearfully.
I tell all the classmembers of the discovery: 'hey, I don't wanna get you worked up for nothing though.'
I start thinking more about the imminent prospect of death. It'll be kind of a shame, if I don't die now.
I lie on my bed. And some genius has gotten Thierry Henry to come in.
i don't know of my reaction: the fantasy splinters. I probably cry. With such joy.
Then I have the operation.

And then I come out of the haze and think. And I'm almost sad that I don't have it, and that I don't get an end or a respite.
Look I know! I know that if I had it I'd wish it were something else.
But that doesn't stop me wanting to be special.

Revising.
Idle fantasy: I run through this plate glass window to my right, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
i run to get as far away form my home as possible. I just run, and run. I throw off my dressing gown: it's impractical.
I hide in a bush, until someone weak-looking comes along. In a flash I jump out, and strangle them. When they stop breathing I do it for another minute just to make sure. Then I take their clothes.
I eventually get to a house of a friend my parents do not know of, and sleep there.

This night's dream:

The Earth is sort of in the end-game stage.
It's me and my girl.
She asks: 'do you love me?'
'do you?', i say
'yes, of course'
'I thought you didn't believe in love'
*non-committal noise*
'well. I love you, y'know'
*she looks with puppy dog eyes*
Her: 'well, I thought, 'cos you had... stopped telling me how much you missed me... that... you didn't'
'Look at me. I love you'
Then we had sex, until magma overflowed onto our bodies and we both died.

Later in the dream, I went to the Sun to visit my brother. Yes I know, I was confused too.
He was bathing in a chlorine spring, it was a regimented hell hole. Everything was controlled.

I went back to Earth, it was almost ok except for the magma.
I saw my girlfriend. We smiled.

Dream:

A few nights ago: There is an ocean. A typically grey, moody ocean. I ask: 'aren't there meant to be eels here?'
A few thousand eels jump out of the water.
A boy tells me yes, there are.
He then transforms, into a kind of shark/eel pointy teeth thing, that goes and catches me some eels, before turning back to a boy again.
He's damn handsome.
I sleep with him, and it is... good. We wake up, or I do. he stares moodily out to sea, conveniently exposing his back.
He is delicious. And then he tells me, that he is looking for his partner.
who I agree to help find.
Hoping that I'll sleep with him again.

An email:

The Sims I believe simply appeals to the overall sense of voyeurism, and the chance of control within a world that is eminently out of our control. By making families we know in real life appear in the game, we can effectively create masturbatory fantasies, with less guilt. And of course more 'realism'. The desire to play God is eminent in so many games: this one just allows it in the most satisfactory light for the public.

Hey y'all.
5'11", 77 kilos, 170 pounds.
That's how it stands today.

Today's not so happy as it might have been.

Family arguments. Ah well. I don't know what they're about.

1. nothing
2. grandma
2. terminal illness

Well who knows?