People can’t see 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 with course work. I have been doing so much in advance – writing that I actually have nothing to worry about. I 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. I torment myself with that – I don’t want to elaborate either; I want to blame my anxieties. I’m too scared to go out to meet people (false, but never mind).
I like to think that I don’t care what others think about me. Still, 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?). Even if I don’t care enough, I’d still force myself. Shit, I just exposed myself (true, but who cares?)!
Back to anxieties: It has to go outside where everyone in the streets appears to be a ruthless arse, trapped in their own world. And when they speak in public, they complain and whine or do other unpleasant rubbish or talk loudly on their mobile phones about their hopeless lives.
When travelling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music properly, 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 very unpleasant about myself, 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 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?
So I have 18 books which I would like to finish by the end of December. I don’t know how I’m 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’s 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 but feel happy for Humbert. What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I can understand his ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse on my end. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.