I really did quit my job. Now I spend the night reading Careers with Animals, How to Start and Successfully Run a Magazine and What You Can Do With Your Degree. I do not want a career; I do not want to be anything. I want to watch TV.
No, that's a lie. But it looks sometimes like the truth. For all the things I say I really want, I sure have a hard time following-through. But in the obsessive-compulsive personality description it says, "Obsessive-compulsive personalities are so taken up with the mechanics of efficiency – organizing, following rules, making lists and schedules – that they cease to be efficient, for they never get anything important done." It's that easy. I am not responsible.
I wish. This is why I do not read psychology books (except for this one book, plucked from the shelf at random).
A few weeks ago someone asked about my history, or rather of my misfortunes, all the things that made/make me, me – the bad things of course. What about how much I like books? All this looking into sadness to figure out people makes me tired. A lot of people do it. It seems the sadness people look for is in some way related to our significance.
I am guilty too. I do this to others and to myself. I look up disorders when I think I am being lazy. Then I drink beer and pass out. Except tonight I do not seem to be passing out so soon…“For the schizoid person…One is a detached observer of life who takes a bemused interest in things as a sort of curious intellectual exercise but has no personal investment in the way things turn out.”