Alone

Most might not fathom or realize that I spend nearly 90% of my time alone. I work alone, live alone, sleep alone, eat alone, entertain alone, etc. I don’t intend this as a complaint; I mean it as a frame of reference regarding my state of existence, not my quality of being. I enjoy having alone time. Recently, on yet another occasion when someone was chastising me for belittling Christianity, it was stated that I must be miserable to be so bitter or whatever. (My major qualm with Christianity, besides the sheer ludicrousness of the religion itself, is that it wrecks havoc on American political decisions.) I replied that I live a very happy life. The person responded, “I doubt it.” What kind of screwed-up reaction is that? On the contrary, I am impervious to the depression that seems to haunt most people.

My solitude is somewhat by choice and somewhat imposed. I will admit I sometimes get paranoid that everybody is ignoring me when in actually they are just busy or whatnot. I forget that others have commitments and such. Also, most of the people I’d spend time with don’t live nearby. Almost everyone in Portland hibernates for the winter, anyway. Seriously.

Most people annoy me. They’re not nearly as interesting as they esteem themselves to be. I don’t have a lot in common with the masses. Never have. Further, I don’t pretend to, which really pisses some off. I find small-talk mostly boring. I find polite conversation mostly boring. I lack the ability to mutely ignore ignorant or disagreeable comments. I can be especially abrasive to those who don’t know me, and my friends know this. I’ve always been a moody person anyway, but sometimes the shock of having to interact socially with ignoramuses is a bit much.

Okay, I’ve bored myself with this topic. Talk to you later.