It’s not something to be proud of but I fear I may have a viral potency in letting others catch into my contagious sense of chaos.
So let it be established once again, that I, Ken, the High Lord of Disorder, should be declared a communicable public hazard.
Or at least that’s how much narcissism can one allow himself to get delusional with.
My apology if that sounded cryptic. I flatter myself into believing I am capable of talking—and writing—hieroglyphics. Someone out there should have this bizarre urge to be charitable and have me committed for mental soundness evaluation. Or make it quick, brief and sweet: kick me in the face.
Anyway, my point. It is roughly seventy nine days ago that I smudged this site with something to say. The entry preceding this one doesn’t really count as it is merely a declaration of my presence; that I still do exist in this site and not in a progressive state of decomposition.
In those random seventy nine days I was having wild anglings and tanglings with glamourpussies, alcoholics, sophisticates, a variety of pretentious snots, drama men and women, and assorted beautiful people drowning in unthinkable misery. It’s kind of overwhelming and eventually I got sick of it. Check that; not really sick of it, but I strangely pine for extended period of quiet moments with no one but myself. That’s selfishness to you, ladies and gentlemen; and I’m too doggone proud to admit it is a bad thing.
Briefly I amused myself with a grand idea that that germinating sensation stirring in the far corners of my mind may be worth a shot but got too quick into realizing the cons outweigh that warm fuzzy feeling. To pilfer a line from a favorite Ben Folds Five song, now that I have found someone, I’m feeling more alone, than I ever have, before…
This is where the chaos and disorder set in. Chaos and disorder are permitted in what I do—people like me eat chaos and disorder for breakfast. Stress is our middle name and we stare at potential fiasco without blinking. But we’re talking of different bananas when affections are concerned.
You have no right to mess with other people feelings. And that’s where my effortless talents lie. Whenever I open my mouth I usually send out signals that are misconstrued to be otherwise than their original intent. I can passionately argue (taking cue from good ole Leo Buscaglia) about why if you’re incapable of loving someone the least you can do is not to hurt him or her and people think I’m a jerk. I say the dumbest, offensive things and people think it’s a come hither gesture. I talk of friendship and I come off like a lunatic and whenever I advocate irresponsibility I reap brownie points.
The kind of thing that inspires you to scream and do horrific homicidal acts.
All the above-mentioned ramblings and rantings are nothing compared to the lost lonely ache of knowing I’d be forever lost, invisible and will be forever explaining myself.
At one point you become friends with exhaustion.
And that’s all there is.