Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Try to Ruminate Peeps

I am a comptuer dentist with regard to customers, suppliers and co-workers -- always, ALWAYS pulling teeth. Funny since most of our clients are actually dentist offices. The idea of randomly picking a (blue, northern/coastal) city and relocating there is so appealing. Manifest destiny.

Although I'm chronically manic to the point of having these delusions of mediocrity several times in a single day, so I tend to eschew great ideas sans fruition.

I'm tired of my tack-spittin' bosses and co-workers. I'm very acerbic when feigning the role of man's-man; it makes me feel phony every time, and the brain actually says to me "what the FUCK are you doing" to which I reply "let me alone, just go back to pondering tits."

I have some savings. Maybe I'll just quit and live off of them for a couple months.

Also I'm weary of the feeling that the few friends I have are either thus because of guilt or lack of better things to do, or that I'm generally Daddy Warbucks when tabbing it up in the wee hours of the morning. Neither instance seems to nourish the old self-esteem, ill-conceived as the whole idea may be.

I don't know how else to be charming and entertaining without the aid of some foreign agent. Incessantly I question what it is about myself that's real and what is drug-induced. And I'm not even talking narcotic- or alcohol-induced moments. Just the usual Paxil-Wellbutrin cocktail that's been a part of my life for years.

Constantly I ruminate about what I have to offer others in regard to "friendship" and it's a short list that's produced when I don't factore in a penchant for the Lafayette drinking/music/place-to-be trend. What is it that makes one person earnestly want the company of another? Currently that requisite is so complex in my psyche that I'm dizzy. But ios it really complex?

I'm probably just in a state of perpetual adolescence -- worrying about popularity and what inane trends are in style that I must partake in to attain acceptance. It reminds me of a dialogue from Little Miss Sunshine:

Dwayne: I wish I could just sleep until I was eighteen and skip all this crap- high school and everything- just skip it.

Frank: You know Marcel Proust?

Dwayne: He's the guy you teach.

Frank: Yeah. French writer. Total loser. Never had a real job. Unrequited love affairs. Gay. Spent 20 years writing a book almost no one reads. But he's also probably the greatest writer since Shakespeare. Anyway, he uh- he gets down to the end of his life... and he looks back and decides that all those years he suffered- Those were the best years of his life, 'cause they made him who he was. All those years he was happy? You know, total waste. Didn't learn a thing. So, if you sleep until you're 18... Ah, think of the suffering you're gonna miss. I mean high school? High school- Those are your prime suffering years. You don't get better suffering than that.

So what if the most fruitful and developmental periods in you life have passed by without you realizing it? Are we just supposed to hyperanalyze those moments ad nauseum? And, I'd say I'm going through some pretty drastic periods of suffering currently. I just wonder how long it will be before I appreciate the wisdom I glean from the seemingly constant tumult.

My sincerest apologies to all of you for having subjected you to drunken Phillip. Just realize that it's a personal paradox: not drinking means you'll never see or know me. Drinking means you'll see me at what I could codify my worst. It's a personal cart and horse.

4 comments:

Bottle Job Blonde said...

Never apologize for Drunken Phillip. Never.

bunny said...

I love you. I miss our conversations. You're interstellar. You give me hope that not every guy's a whoremongering slug with no integrity. (Just the ones I date. And btw, that's not so funny now that I read it.)

Phillip said...

Thanks so much fun-on-the-Bunny. You are the wind beneath my wings.

Lord Fondleberries said...

i second the never apologize drunken phillip bit.

btw: i love your ass. well, your ior anyway.

hugs and mittens,

lord fondleberries