justnick's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- In case you didn't know, Nick is shy and insecure. Read on for more details One more interruption before resuming regular service. We appreciate your patience. Your call is important to us. I've realised that most of the things that I'm suppsoed to love as a "full-grown" male all scare the Bejesus out of me. Sex--sorry mom, should have warned you that was coming--is terrifying. Fear of inadequacy, fear of the possibilities they fill your head with in sex ed. Am I the only male who came away from adolescence with the distinct sub-conscious impression that if I ever touch a girl below the neck, my skin will melt off of my genital region, she will immediately give birth to a brood of hell-babies that will ruin my life, and I will spend the rest of my life in jail for rape if she even heard someone talking about Listerine that day? Then there's work. My job is terrible, but I stay because the idea of geting a new one is even worse. Opportunity is not an exciting prospect in the least. I prefer opportunity--and women--to come to me. The interview process, cutting my hair, not being able to do what other people on the job can do. What if they judge me? What if they laugh at me? What if they think I'm a worthless human being? No no.. what if they figure it out? Now, it's not that I think I'm worthless. it's that there's a part of me that is completely certain that if I ever attempt anything that I'm not positive I'm fantastic at, I will not only fail spectacularly, but I will do it worse than anyone has ever failed before. And everyone will remember. And talk about it, for years to come. And school. Don't get me wrong, I'm happy to be in it. And I'm not going to quit now. But I'm simply not cut out for this. I am not a journalist. the thought of callling up someone for an interview fills my heart with dread and my proverbial pantaloons with proverbial poop. Who the hell am I? Why would they want to talk to me? I'm a stranger. They'd prefer it if I left them alone. And damnit, so would I. I don't want to talk to strangers. I just want to write, but don't want to have to bust my balls working at chapters and writing copy for years because I decided to get an English degree. I don't want to read the newspaper, I don't want to do a feature on a local buisinessman. All I want to do for a living is write for Saturday morning cartoon shows. Maybe publish a novel or two. But this whole insecure adolescence thing is stretching into my early twenties, and I'm waiting for real life to kick in. I'm in a program that is teaching me life skills I never want to use so I can get a job that I'll hate because it'll give me a better shot at getting published. I'm a simple man who enjoys simple pleasures. And I'm constantly frightenned. Of everything. And everyone. All of my life, I've been frightenned. Because I'm a bad athelete. Because I'm shy. Because I'm in bad shape. For any number of reasons that don't matter. I'm just sick and tired of being frightenned. My mother loves me so unfazedly that I have never doubted my general self worth, and my father has taught me to believe in my natural abilities enough that I have never doubted that my life will end up somewhere wonderful, but I certainly wish all this in between would hurry up. I'm sick of being shy and insecure and frightenned. I've got things to do. Excelsior. 12:39 a.m. - 2007-01-30 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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