Anxieties and Humbert

People just cannot see the indifference. Is this a job well done or is this just my nasty way of keeping things from people? I am, by all means, not under pressure regarding university work. I have been doing so much in advance – writing that is, that I have actually nothing to worry about.  I, indeed, need more time to catch up with my readings, though. So, whenever I talk about pressure, it is the pressure I get from…people. I feel like an arsehole for saying that. The reason why I torment myself with that is unclear – I do not want to elaborate either, I simply want to blame my anxieties, even though coldness would fit best, but let’s call it anxieties for now. I’m too scared to go out meet people (false, but never mind).

I like to think that I do not care what others think about me, but in various cases, when I know they are good people and actually care about me, I treat them the way they deserve to be treated (you’ve heard that before, haven’t you?), but even though I don’t find myself caring enough, I’d still torment myself to go through it. Shit, I just exposed myself (true but who cares)!

Back to anxieties: It’s the fact of having to go outside where everyone in the streets appear to be a ruthless arse, trapped in his or her own world and when s/he speaks in public, it’s nothing but complaining, whining or doing other unpleasant rubbish, or talking loudly on the mobile phone about their useless private lives.
When traveling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music properly, let alone talk with your friend, because they’d just nod friendly, pretending they’ve heard what you’ve just said. This noise is sick and causes nothing but annoyance and What-the-fuck-ever.

I don’t know who I can really make good friends with. Always close before people think I’m nice I would blurt out something very unpleasant which shocks them. For instance when I walked with someone and we encountered a mother telling her daughter off. My soon-to-be-friend said “I hate people talking to their children like that…” and I said “I would’ve beaten them up already.” I just can’t lie about things like that. Or when someone, who thinks I’m shy and delicate, asks me “Do you drink?” and I go “No, I’d rather do drugs, I just don’t get the chance to.” Is this too much truth? Do you still want to know me?

So I have 18 books which I would like to finish by end of December. I don’t know how I am going to manage that. And it’s doing me head in.

I’m reading Lolita, which I’ve always wanted to read, but never got around to. Then I found out Humbert is Ellis’ hero and I got even more interested. It’s a fascinating read – it is. And I feel so bad for having felt relief the moment Charlotte got run over by a car and I couldn’t help feeling happy for Humbert, either. What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I can comprehend with his evil ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse on my side. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.

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