And Then I Thought I was a Fish

IDENTIFYING INFORMATION: Peter Hunt Welch is a 20-year-old single Caucasian male who was residing in Bar Harbor, Maine this summer. He is a University of Maine at Orono student with no prior psychiatric history, who was admitted to the Acadia Hospital on an involuntary basis due to an acute level of confusion and disorganization, both behaviorally and cognitively. He was evaluated at MDI and was transferred from that facility due to psychosis, impulse thoughts, delusions, and disorientation.

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Observations of a Straight White Male with No Interesting Fetishes

Ever wondered how to justify your own righteousness even while you're constantly embarrassed by it? Or how to make a case for your own existence when you contribute nothing besides nominal labor to a faceless corporation that's probably exploiting children? Are you clinging desperately to an arbitrary social model imposed by your parents and childhood friends? Or screaming in terror, your mind unhinged at the prospect of an uncaring void racing to consume the very possibility of your life having meaning?

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Noware

This is the story of a boy, a girl, a phone, a cat, the end of the universe, and the terrible power of ennui.

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Drinking

Composed on the 3rd of September in the year 2005, at 11:16 PM. It was Saturday.

(from about two years ago)

So I’m throwing back another. The only reason this is a new entry is that I’m egotistical enough to think that my thoughts are important enough to be separated by big green lines, or whatever color they are. Terrible commercials are playing on the television, with people I know from school playing obnoxious stereotypes to explicate messages everybody’s heard. Watching the obscenely low quality of acting, not to mention the amateur quality of the video, the concept, and the script, I wonder why these people are employed and I’m not. Oh well. God bless Guinness.

Still, I’m getting flown to Italy soon to teach Italian art students how to make a film, which is probably more exciting than anything anyone else is doing over winter break, so I’m in no position to bitch, which is why I’ve stopped bitching and started gloating.

Honestly, life’s pretty peachy right now. I’m writing because I remember something someone told me once: “Diaries are always depressing, because you can write pages and pages on all the depressing and lonely times in your life, but when you’re happy you don’t have time to write. It’s just ‘I’m so happy!’ or ‘I’m going off to talk to the dandelions!’” The only journal I ever kept covers two years and consists of ten pages about how much I love my girlfriend, then a good two hundred pages (of small, cramped handwriting) about how much of a bitch she was, and how she was wrecking my life. Depressing times always push us to dig into ourselves and figure out why we’re depressed, which creates little circles telling us that only by finding the most depressing part of it can we achieve catharsis and escape, which eventually leads to finding no escape, which eventually leads to reading “The Bell Jar”, and no one should have to go through that.

I’m finishing up The Bell Jar, which is why I’m thinking about depression, although I’m not actually that depressed. Not being depressed is in itself curious, because I have a severe case of seasonal affective disorder, and I tend to get extremely depressed all winter. December is the pits because it’s getting dark and cold (I live in Maine, so if you don’t live in Maine, just think of Siberia when I say dark and cold), and I usually crawl into my shell around Christmas, have a nervous breakdown in February, and recover in March. I guess I’m not doing that now because I’m going to Italy soon, and I’m usually surrounded by beautiful, intelligent women, and good friends who buy me beer when I’m broke. But I’m gloating again. Back to the Bell Jar.

The Bell Jar is well written, but it has that Notes From Underground flaw, which is basically, Get Over It. Romanticizing depression is like handing kids razor blades. Not to mention all the bad poetry the same kids will write in the blood they extract with the razors. The back of the book is covered in comments about how the main character, Esther Greenwood (a thinly disguised Sylvia Plath), is insane, and how well the book portrays that. She’s not insane, she’s angsty and suicidal, and locks herself in her bell jar because no one knew how to help people like that back then. Which is why Sylvia Plath killed herself. Sylvia Plath herself may well have been bipolar to the point of insanity, or depressed to the point of insanity, but the book is about depression and futility and existential surrender. I think I’ve gotten off topic. But who cares, this is a journal, right? I’m allowed to randomly say things that suggest it would be right and proper and best for me to spend the rest of my life in a drunken haze watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I’m gonna go get that third sheet to the wind.

Suicide is painless.

Hi there! You should totally go buy my book for the low low price of 6.73! It's like buying me a beer at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Brooklyn! Not in Manhattan. Manhattan prices are ridiculous, though there are a couple of decent Irish dives where you can snag a drink for five bucks. Otherwise, you're looking at a two or three book beer.
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