A
Algalord
Guest
I have many proclivities, but most of them shall go unmentioned.
I don't know if this would be a "hobby" per se, but I have a propensity to fall into great bouts of melancholy. When I have free time, my day typically unfolds in this pattern:
My alarms goes off. I roll over and hit the snooze. Already, I miss the excursion of the dream world. I lay in bed trying to muster the drive to get up and on with the day. Were it possible to be debased any further in life, because I would describe it as a sense of trepidation; rather, it is ennui and torpor weighing me down like a weight blanket. I now notice the time the snooze has afforded me has long since passed, but I was lost in pensive rumination. Realizing the folly of attempting to rationalize or put into perspective my woeful predicament, I reluctantly raise myself and take a tentative step forward to face this doleful existence. Disheveled, I maunder about aimlessly in my hallway—being directionless seems to be reoccurring theme in my life. Sometimes I shower and lose track of time in there, other times I don't bother to deal with my slovenly appearance.
I've made it to the kitchen now, and I begin to go through the motions of preparing my breakfast. I find myself staring at an austere, unadorned bowl of instant oatmeal which had long since grown cold as I had lingered in remorse. I don't even remember how I have gotten here—yet another familiar sentiment; story of my life. I consider perhaps speaking to someone, one of my "friends", perhaps. I quickly push that thought aside, however; I'm not particularly eager to listen to stale, callous remarks, and I'm sure they've grown tired of delusional, disjointed soliloquies. I realize how much time has passed as I had dithered, and have grown hungry again. I could go out, but I would have to make myself look presentable—even if I am already groomed, I don't know if I have it in me to put on a blithe facade and dole out perfunctory smiles to strangers; I may slip and give a depreciative look or speak in a sardonic tone. Worse yet, someone may try to strike up a conversation with me, and my dry sarcasm or patronizing remarks seem to go above their heads entirely, sometimes even entirely misconstrued as sincere compliments.
In the end, I wallow in sorrow and reminisce about better days, immersed in self-loathing. Though, I recognize I have no right to lash out and blame others or pity myself as a victim. After all, I shouldn't have been such a gullible fool.
Really, it was pretty clear Lost's mysteries and developments were either completely arbitrary or red herrings stringing us along so we'd watch the next episode. But, come on, Jacob had was just some guy who drank voodoo water and the smoke monster was just his brother who went into a magic glowing hole that contains a jacuzzi with a ancient Aztec bath plug or whatever? Character-based show my ***, Lindelof. You promised us answers. "Because magic" and "because his mom had powers" are not answers. YOU RUINED MY LIFE.
Also, I (used to) like television. And video games. Before I was disillusioned with those, too.
I don't know if this would be a "hobby" per se, but I have a propensity to fall into great bouts of melancholy. When I have free time, my day typically unfolds in this pattern:
My alarms goes off. I roll over and hit the snooze. Already, I miss the excursion of the dream world. I lay in bed trying to muster the drive to get up and on with the day. Were it possible to be debased any further in life, because I would describe it as a sense of trepidation; rather, it is ennui and torpor weighing me down like a weight blanket. I now notice the time the snooze has afforded me has long since passed, but I was lost in pensive rumination. Realizing the folly of attempting to rationalize or put into perspective my woeful predicament, I reluctantly raise myself and take a tentative step forward to face this doleful existence. Disheveled, I maunder about aimlessly in my hallway—being directionless seems to be reoccurring theme in my life. Sometimes I shower and lose track of time in there, other times I don't bother to deal with my slovenly appearance.
I've made it to the kitchen now, and I begin to go through the motions of preparing my breakfast. I find myself staring at an austere, unadorned bowl of instant oatmeal which had long since grown cold as I had lingered in remorse. I don't even remember how I have gotten here—yet another familiar sentiment; story of my life. I consider perhaps speaking to someone, one of my "friends", perhaps. I quickly push that thought aside, however; I'm not particularly eager to listen to stale, callous remarks, and I'm sure they've grown tired of delusional, disjointed soliloquies. I realize how much time has passed as I had dithered, and have grown hungry again. I could go out, but I would have to make myself look presentable—even if I am already groomed, I don't know if I have it in me to put on a blithe facade and dole out perfunctory smiles to strangers; I may slip and give a depreciative look or speak in a sardonic tone. Worse yet, someone may try to strike up a conversation with me, and my dry sarcasm or patronizing remarks seem to go above their heads entirely, sometimes even entirely misconstrued as sincere compliments.
In the end, I wallow in sorrow and reminisce about better days, immersed in self-loathing. Though, I recognize I have no right to lash out and blame others or pity myself as a victim. After all, I shouldn't have been such a gullible fool.
Really, it was pretty clear Lost's mysteries and developments were either completely arbitrary or red herrings stringing us along so we'd watch the next episode. But, come on, Jacob had was just some guy who drank voodoo water and the smoke monster was just his brother who went into a magic glowing hole that contains a jacuzzi with a ancient Aztec bath plug or whatever? Character-based show my ***, Lindelof. You promised us answers. "Because magic" and "because his mom had powers" are not answers. YOU RUINED MY LIFE.
Also, I (used to) like television. And video games. Before I was disillusioned with those, too.
