But It's My Own Garbage.
10/19/20265 min read
To give you the latest update that is very honest: whatever. Just, like in general, with everything - whatever. Not that I don’t care about anything anymore. Of course I care. If anything, I kind of care a little too much. Especially for my own liking. I kind of wish I cared less.
Caring is unfortunately sort of my thing. Or maybe, fortunately. Depends who you ask. If you're someone just looking to get through a day and you find yourself near me, having to answer my thousand follow-up questions about what and when and how and why, which I inevitably will have about whatever sentence you decided to produce in front of me — my caring might be unfortunate, and I fully recognize that.
I love Rosamund Pike’s character in “Saltburn” when she says, “That couldn’t have been me. I’ve never wanted to know anything.” So cool, seriously. The irony is- I wish that her character could be me. I want to not want to know anything. But I’m just about the exact opposite of that.
My family would say my own curiosity is what will get me killed. Not that there is a Hunting for Curious People where hunters are free to kill whoever is the most curious organized anywhere. At least not that I know of. But the world is a huge and mysterious place and those sort of Hunger Games — Curious Games — being organized in some deep part of the world would not shock me. People died for far less than being curious.
I kind of lost the plot here. I think I was trying to summarize the last 4 weeks and I just realized that I don’t really know why I wanted to do it.
I kind of forgot why I started this blog in the first place. Ah, yes, I was traveling through Asia and had too much time on my hands. And a laptop, and a head filled with ADHD thoughts, and a stable, good connection to the Internet. That will do it.
But seriously, I don’t know that I had any other huge goal in my head. Probably not intentionally. If anything, a goal so subconsciously hidden that I don’t know what it was and maybe I hoped I would learn what it is by now — except I did not. And I never will, maybe.
And I never will, maybe. It doesn’t scare me or worry me. I had a lot of goals in my life that I achieved by now. Like my bucket list that I made when I was 12? Everything is crossed out.
Yep. Pretty solid to die now. Been to Australia, wrote a screenplay, moved to a different country and painted a cockroach on a T-shirt that I wore in public a few times too many. There was more on that list, just so we’re clear. But it is a fact that all those goals have been achieved by me by now.
Anyways, I was looking through my blog posts and reading through them and while they sound like me and I know for a fact I 100% wrote them, they sound not chaotic enough. I don’t think I really brought my chaotic self in there. Or I made so many edits I kind of lost the plot. Or maybe while trying to find the plot in all my chaotic writing I lost myself.
So some blog articles I wrote here seem to have plenty of plot but are missing me. Maybe there's such a thing like trying too hard. I surely overedited some of my best original thoughts. And will they ever come back? Looking at the state of my ADHD, probably no.
Speaking of trying too hard, I recently spent four days of one week at urgent care because of my finger. It got infected. Then it got worse. Then it got worse again. At some point, my doctor started greeting me with “Come here often?” and “Long time no see,” which is not really what you want to hear as someone with commitment issues.
The first time I went — how nice was it to spend my only day off at urgent care — the doctor prescribed me antibiotics, which I couldn't pick up until 24 hours later because of work. This couldn't matter much, right? Wrong. Very, very wrong.
I woke up with my finger numb, swollen, red, and boiling hot inside. My whole hand looked like the Hulk's if he were red and a woman. I had to call out for the first time ever, and one of the managers kindly suggested I still show up since “my legs still work.” I declined the polite offer and went to urgent care again.
The doctor advised me to stay home and even gave me a note. So naturally, I went to work. I think I had something to prove. To whom? Unclear. I don't care what the “I'd-crawl-to-work” people think of my work ethic. I'd rather live. But apparently, I still wanted everyone to know I wasn't weak, even with a finger that was actively trying to leave my body.
That shift didn't last long. At my final appointment, the receptionist asked if she could watch the doctor drain the pus out of my finger. What a sick person. Her name is Ashley, and she's actually very nice. Nonetheless, a very weird interest she's got. I guess she's in the right line of work, though.
So there I was, repeatedly returning to urgent care like it was my second job, all because I had something to prove. Which is kind of what I've been doing with this blog, too. Apparently, I decided I should be able to work 50 hours a week, have a social life, get enough sleep, and consistently publish well-edited, hilarious blog posts.
For what? Who am I trying to impress? My infected finger?
This one I am writing here right now is probably the most me post I’ve posted yet and probably the most chaotic one. Just a bunch of garbage. But it’s my own garbage and it feels very me, and maybe this post is the one I enjoy the most because if anything it really shows what goes on through my head.
I am writing this post in 10 minutes. That’s the amount of time I allocated. I haven’t really stopped typing since I started; and the only thing that will change between me writing this and it going live on my blog is that I will have moved from my bed to a coffee shop and I will look through some of my texts from the past few days to see if there’s anything that I can use here.
Anyways, like I was saying, I always want to know everything. And then more. I have a tendency to ask a thousand follow-up questions to any statement. Which is why I make friends easily.
My biggest strength is making friends easily and my biggest weakness is not being able to keep secrets to myself. In this essay I will explain how they’re directly intertwined and I couldn’t be one without the other.
Just kidding, there’s no essay.
I have written enough for now. Or at least until I feel like writing again. Because I’ve noticed that’s the only time I can work, and I can work my best. Should I go ahead and tell my boss that?