People can’t see indifference.
On the surface, you pretend to care.
I am not under pressure with my coursework since I’ve done so much in advance – writing that I don’t have to worry about. I need more time to catch up with readings, though. So, whenever I talk about pressure, it’s the pressure I get from people. I feel like an arsehole for saying that and torment myself with that – I don’t want to elaborate; I want to blame my anxieties. I’m too anxious to go out to meet people (false).
I like to think that I don’t care what others think. Still, in various cases, when I know they are good people and care about me, I treat them the way they deserve to be treated (you’ve heard that before). Even if I don’t care enough, I still make myself.
Anxieties: It has to go outside where everyone in the streets appears to be a careless bastard, trapped in their own world. When they speak in public, they complain and whine about their pathetic lives on their mobile phone.
When travelling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music, let alone talk with your friend, because they’d nod at you, pretending they’ve heard what you said. This noise is sick and causes nothing but annoyance.
I don’t know who I can really make good friends with. Whenever I’m close to making a friend, I would blurt out something unpleasant about myself, which astonishes them. For instance, when I walked with someone, we encountered a mother telling her daughter off. The person I was with said, “I hate it when people talk to their children like that…” and I said, “I would’ve beaten them up already.” I 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 have the opportunity.” Is this too much truth? Do you still want to know me?
I have 18 books which I would like to finish by the end of December. I don’t know how I’m going to do that.
I’m reading Lolita, which I’ve always wanted to read, but never got around. Then I found out Humbert is Ellis’s hero, and I got more interested. It’s a fascinating read with an unreliable narrator making you empathize with him. I feel bad for feeling relieved when Charlotte got run over by a car, and I couldn’t help but feel happy for Humbert.
What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I understand his ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.
