DSM diagnosis: Unloveable-ness with a tendency towards self-loathing. Prognosis: Lame.

I want to be a story worth writing about. To live each day and say "wow, that was awesome, someone should write that down." But then the next morning comes, and I don't want to leave my apartment, let alone do any of the random things that might make a day memorable-like singing at the top of my longs in a public place, or,  asking someone on a date. Hell,  I felt embarrassed making eye contact with a relatively cute guy in the grocery store. My most memorable moment today? Eating cookies. Cookies I would not usually eat. Unfortunately for my stone-cold heart, they beat out my dinner conversation with friends (thinking about the food), and my futile familial call (my attempt at connection and loving relatedness left me confronted with a cold and shivering heart when I got of the phone).

"A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: How I Learned to Live a Better Life" by David Miller is excellent. However in currently not living a better life, I feel a little bit lame as I reread it. Shaming myself with lameness is not usually an effective antidote to my already large dose of lame, but when I get perspective on it, it is at least slightly comedic.

My dad's words of wisdom tonight were"get up, dress up, and show up, that's like, 80% of it." It's like I'm dressing up for meaninglessness every day. Changing out of my pajamas and some piece of clothing I feel relatively comfortable in to go out in the world and... stare at people and wonder why they walk around in their lives. The most meaning I've been able to find is in my trips to the grocery store, because I MUST eat green apples with cashews (or if I run out of whatever concoction I have imagined, it will quickly be replaced with anything within arm's reach), otherwise I simply WON'T be ok. Ok, so there is meaning in consumption, and not having cold toes. If I was completely numb I wouldn't be so concerned about having cold extremities-at least I still have some survival instinct intact.

But it's all so pathetically boring, which is what makes it even more depressing. I have no children, I am not in severe debt, I'm not overweight, I don't have cancer. And there is a world with many more significant crises beyond my cross-eyed dilemna.  I'm stuck, and I suffer from an acute case of self-loathing and unloveable-ness (yes unloveable-ness is a psychiatric disorder, look it up in the DSM biatches).

I'm not committed to this lame story. Part of it shifts when I stop correlating the quality of my day with whether or not I'm happy and satisfied by what I ate (because that rarely, if ever happens). But that does happen when I'm involved in things that provide way more meaning than whatever it is I may be consuming. So that's the mission: do something, ANYTHING, that makes me excited and trumps my concerns about cold toes, iron hearts, and lunch time.