I'm just an animal looking for a home

Journal Entry


Note:  The only changes to this entry are minor corrections to grammar, punctuation, formatting, and spelling.  I’ve also removed any last names which appeared, except in the case of teachers.


I wonder if I’m clinically depressed.  I don’t think so.  I’m a little lonely, though — I miss Monica.  I want to talk to someone.

This is one of those moods that makes me want to drink.  Or go to a busy public place, just to be around other people.  My isolation is somewhat self-imposed.

I don’t like it when this melancholy descends.  I want to get rid of it, yet I also treasure it.  Maybe I think suffering is noble, or cool, or inspiring.  I don’t know.

Perhaps I’ll go to sleep soon — is that a retreat from the world?  Depressed people do sleep a lot.

This is a bleak mood.  It is terrible that I recognize my mood and choose not to overcome it.  Choose, you ask?  Yes, choose.  I’m pretty sure that I could just let this mood lift — well, force it to lift, anyway.  But I’m not, for some reason.  There is no audience here for my suffering, so can I really be doing it out of self-pity?

Have I always possessed this dark, melancholy, introspect part to me?  It is no fun.

Writing about it doesn’t help.  Writing probably doesn’t help.  Very little helps.  That’s a complete lie.  Companionship would temporarily alleviate it.  Being with Monica would help a lot.


I guess everyone has these moods.  How the fuck do most people deal with them?  But I can deal with them.  I just don’t.  Do I not want to be happy?  What the fuck do I want?  What do I need from life in order to be happy?  Is there an answer to that question?  Fuck.

“What’s the secret, Max?”
“The secret?”
“You seem to have it pretty figured out.”
“Well, i think you need to find something you love and do it for the rest of your life.”

I love Monica.  Should I try to be with her for the rest of my life?  Way too soon to say.  She doesn’t love me.  Does that matter?  Does anything?  Probably.  But what?

Should I look for the solution to my problems in someone else, or can only I solve my problems?  Pop culture would have me believe that the key is within myself.  I suppose that is possible.

All too easily I can picture myself as a lonely old man.  Will I ever find whatever it is I’m looking for?  Or have I already?

Right now I want to get in the car and drive to Monica.  My life here is fucked anyway.  School, for the most part, is becoming dull.  I can probably count my real friends on one hand.  I’m tired of this life.

But is this just a case of the grass being greener?  Christ, I don’t know.  I need to do something or I’ll eventually explode.  I wish I was 6 years old again.  Or dead.  No, I’m not suicidal — I doubt my death (whenever it comes) will be from suicide.  But being dead is simple and holds a certain appeal for me.  So does living on a mountain for a year and not speaking to anyone.  Am I going crazy?  Would it come as a surprise to anyone if I went nuts?  Maybe.

I hope all of this stuff is just a catharsis of sorts (never pass up an opportunity to use the word catharsis).

Hopefully this (writing) will exhaust me.  I am growing more tired.

Laura just called.  I’ll write more later.


Author: mitcharf

vegan, curmudgeon, animal lover, feminist, agnostic, cat whisperer, bookworm, hermit, Red Sox fan, Cthulhu enthusiast, softball player, man-about-town

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