It’s five o’clock in the morning. I am listening to the Todd Glass Show. I am pooping. I am reading Mindy Kaling’s book. I am pooping again. I am listening to music. I am not sleeping. I am being annoyed that I am not sleeping. I am writing.
I don’t know how for the first 23 years of my life I could deep throat two ice cream cones while snorting shredded cheese and shooting milk into my veins and be fine but now I eat half a yogurt and my ass explodes out what imagine substitutes for confetti whenever flies win whatever their Super Bowl equivalent is. So that explains the double pooping.
I am stressed out – not from the pooping or aching stomach – and I hate myself for being stressed out over nothing. All I have to do is wake up some point tomorrow afternoon and prepare a little bit for the podcast I do with my friend Christopher and then I have exactly six days of doing nothing with my life because I’m a complete loser and all attempts to change that have failed thus far before I can get stressed out over nothing again.
I don’t know how it happens, but I always get on this shitty schedule again, where I don’t go to bed until six or seven in the morning, and I hate that because I’d like to be waking up at six or seven in the morning, and not necessarily so I can have a productive day, but because I want to work out. I’ll admit it, although I hate to, I love working out. I don’t love actually working out, but I love the idea that maybe if I do it enough I might look relatively good one day, and by relatively good I mean I’ll be relatively good looking compared to other guys who are about five foot six. No matter how in shape I am I’ll never look as good as an average looking guy of above average height, or an average height guy of above average looks. This genuinely upsets me a few times a week, probably a few times a day, probably every single time I look in the mirror, probably every single time I remember I’m single, probably every single time I remember I exist.
Yes, I have problems.
I can only work out in the morning because I don’t want anyone to know I work out. If I ever look decent I want people to think it’s because I drink a lot of water and pray every night. God forbid anybody think I purposely worked for it. But I work out in my room, because God forbid I be dedicated enough to actually go to a gym – God forbid I be enough of a man to not care that much about how I look. The problem is a lot of people live in this house, there’s six of us, and I hate every single time they hear me do anything, because I have problems.
No one reads this, but every time I say something negative about myself, every single time I say something bad about myself, I think, “She’s gonna read this, and she’s going to realize you’re a loser, and she’s not going to like you.” And I feel really bad. And then I remember she’s not talking to me anyway so all signs point to her already not liking me.
Everything I write is nonsense. Except the part about her not liking me. That part is sense.
There was this girl named Annabelle, and the last time we talked she said she was going to take a shower and she’d call me right after.
Sometimes I tell the weirdest stories and other times I wish I was telling much weirder stories.
It’s very dark in my room right now, and there’s this green light next to the power bottom on my TV, and it’s floating in the dark. What I mean by that is that, I guess because of the glare from my tiny little computer on my lap, I can’t see anything beyond my tiny little computer on my lap, except that green light surrounded by nothingness. It’s surprisingly calming. Not calming in the way that it calms me down. But calming in the way that it doesn’t freak me out that from my perspective it appears like there’s a random green light floating in my room with miles and miles of darkness behind it.
She’s a double major. Not Annabelle. I suppose Annabelle could be. I don’t really know what Annabelle ever did after that shower, but I suspect it wasn’t double majoring in Philosophy and Neurobiology.