Monday, February 27, 2017

I'm Pretty Sure I'm Garbage

Hi.

My name is Benjamin. I'm a 27-year-old single white male.

I was born into a life of privilege. I don't think I've wasted it, but I'm still pretty sure I'm a garbage person.

I am terrible at keeping in touch. Friends and colleagues send me things. They send me letters, postcards, and presents. I send nothing in return. I've had people in my life beg me to keep in touch, and I've not followed through. To be fair, some of those people could be doing more on their end, but we're not here to talk about them.

And that's another reason I'm garbage. We're not here to talk about anyone else. We're not even here to talk. I'm writing to you. You're reading what I'm writing. You're thinking of a response. You're not responding because you either want to see where this goes or you don't think it's worth it.

Most people, when they disagree with me, don't immediately vocalize it. That would be the healthy thing to do. Friends, coworkers, roommates, etc. have consistently repressed their opposition to me. It almost always eventually comes to a boil.

Again, it's my fault. I surround myself with people who are too kind or cautious to immediately express their disagreement with me.

Or a majority of you are cowards.

But who am I to even suggest such a thing?

At this point I'm probably coming across as sarcastic. I swear, I'm being sincere. If I weren't such utter garbage, you'd take seriously my pleas for sincerity.

I get frustrated by texts and phone calls. Okay, at least (as far as the latter is concerned) I'm not usually receiving a phone call from a friend, but most likely from an employer or someone who wants money from me. No one looks forward to such conversations. But my aversion to texts and Facebook messages is inexplicable.

I'd go on, but I have to go to work.

I'm putting off writing to go get paid to do something that isn't writing. And that's yet another reason I'm pure filth. Setting aside my passion for profit is something I swore I'd never do, but my stomach demands it. Pure id, this stomach of mine.

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