I have a super busy weekend of Japanese lessons to catch up on, but real quick, let me walk you through my drunk epiphany from last night. I can do that, because I apparently typed a draft of drunk ramblings. I had to delete most of it, like the title, Hey, Sober Me, Look at This, but some is worth remembering. This is the first time Drunk Me was able to speak to Sober Me. I don’t think the two of us like each other very much, but I’ll save that mind-fuck for another time.
I have a god complex, but I feel like it’s contradictory to being a shy, paranoid spaz. It sounds like something a narcissist or psychopath would have. I’m screwing up being crazy, that shouldn’t be possible. I can’t even with this mess.
Fine, I’ll admit I’ve been called a psychopath more than my fair share, but psychopaths don’t love animals the way I do. And even if I were, not all psychopaths are violent. It’s actually a fascinating topic I highly recommend reading up on.
I’m a gamer, but I hate when they challenge me. I don’t want to try really hard to beat a game. I’m playing it because I can’t life. I don’t want to struggle and suffer like in the real world, I want to mow down my enemies like a god. I want them to fall before me, and stand atop a pillar of corpses.
Sober me just wants to interject, it’s not for the act of killing itself. I only want a castle so I can keep lots of stuff without being called a Hoarder. No one throws around the H word until you have to navigate through pathways of clutter. Castles are a good way to avoid this. Most games just happen to require a lot of killing before they give you a castle.
Right now, I’m addicted to Minecraft. I have been playing for almost a year, and it is still set on Peaceful Mode. The plan was to build up a castle of resources, beef up with the best weapons, then turn the difficulty up when I could swat enemies like flies. 8 months later I’m living in a fully lit kingdom with chests of food I’ll never eat, but I can’t bring myself to change the difficulty. The worst part is, I didn’t build near a village, meaning I have to transport villagers across my map. Not to start a village, but to fill the cells in my dungeon. The traders keep de-spawning.
Sober me does not have a defense for keeping villagers captive in my dungeon. Except that I suck at it. It’s really hard to push a villager that far.
Next is the imaginary friend thing… I guess I owe you guys an apology. I started writing as a way of therapy, but that barely lasted a day. Then it felt weird to give background info about myself to myself… so I decided, hey, imaginary friends.
Then I felt weird doing all this for just a few people… so I thought hey… an audience. But then it somehow evolved into something resembling a cult. Maybe having my followers name their children after me was a bit much. Now, there’s a daycare for the kids, I gave people careers. It all got out of hand so fast. Oh! This is the whole, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely thing! It really sneaks up on you.
What does that say about me? Oh shit, it says I’m a white person born in the south. No, no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no, hell no!
Ok starting right now, all my imaginary peeps have mansions, fancy cars, and swimming pools… but they still have to read my stuff. They don’t have to read every day, but once a week sounds fair. Honestly, it sounds super generous. I feel better. Though, this might just be playing into the god complex even more. I’m so confused, let’s leave this alone for now. Rome wasn’t built in a day, after all.
I like writing because it’s a socially acceptable way to talk to myself. I have conversations with myself, but only in my head. I know if I say them out loud, I’ll be crossing a line into a different level of crazy. One that feels forebodingly permanent. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like myself, that’s not why I do it. I do it because… well. I don’t know. I guess I’m a glutton for punishment. That feels close to the mark.
I think about what I experience now, and how hard it will be to remember when I’m 50. What pieces of my life will I lose then? Sure, there’s plenty I want to forget, but the laws of statistics say I’m going to lose good stuff too. Way back when, I couldn’t comprehend how adults forgot stuff from childhood. Now that I have decades of memories in my brain, it’s understandable.
There are so many days of my past I can’t remember anymore. Theoretically, they’ve been overshadowed by more significant events, but we can’t know for sure because I forgot them. The past is lost forever, but I can technically save now. I kept journals sporadically over the years, but certain events eventually compelled me to burn most of them. I guess I can’t burn a blog, so that’s a new aspect.
It tempts me to dig out my surviving journals for review, but that usually ends in Present Me wishing I could strangle Past Me. That bitch is lucky I can’t lay hands on her. Part of me does feel oddly compelled to record what’s left of those days. For prosperity. Just kidding, it’s so the psychologists who one day study my brain can have the most accurate information possible. You know scientists, all data, data, data. I hope I’m still alive by then. It would suck to go the Van Gough route. We should live in an age of technology where they don’t need physical access to my brain… right?
Ok. Sober me sees the god complex thing now. This is 100% why we’re smokers in this family.