“The people walk with such an indifference I begin to hate them, but then again I’ve never really been fond of anything.”
— Charles Bukowski (From Notes Of A Dirty Old Man)
Behind closed doors I have anarchy mainly with myself. I have a desire to be in love, and be able to express myself openly with another; yet, at the same time, I remain cynical about the other person’s principles from my past experiences with relationships. Thus, on nights out, I drink heavily and adopt a false persona, sleeping with random females to pass the time and disguise my true emotions as an individual.
On the whole, I’ve treated women like shit: I’ve preyed on easy targets in hope that I would achieve some sort of “respectable” reputation as one of the “lads”, because that’s how we’re apparently supposed to act. Drink has always been my night’s escapism: I turn into an irresponsible, egotistical misogynist, attempting to justify my own masculinity, and act out some sort of revenge on the female gender as a whole. Fuck a condom, spread a disease. They don’t respect themselves, and I’ll never respect them either.
Thing is, the hangovers live with me whenever I have a moment of recollection (like tonight). Most nights I try to be alone, to pick my brain, to find out who I am, and what exactly is left in life to want any more — steadily, I feel like I am going insane. So, other nights I crave the attention, to get away from my own thoughts, and achieve some sort of belonging, or recognition. I get no satisfaction from the random sex, but still I continue to do it on nights out, despite promising myself in sobriety that I wouldn’t use this method of behaviourism to define myself anymore. On the whole, I can’t respect myself, or any other man that brags about a similar falsehood. I am no longer feel like just a misogynist, but like I am increasingly becoming a misanthropist.
I am a contradiction, constantly wrestling with my own thoughts. My ideal life would have balance, and the simple solution to this would be to stop drinking, but sobriety bores me. It’s a vicious cycle, and, if I’m honest, I haven’t really got the energy to solve it all at the moment. I’ll just keep on writing my whines as a reflection of the self at that particular moment in time, though with no suitable end to justify the means.
Self-loathing blog over.