Lost, I guess, is the way that I would put it. The way I feel. My state of being. Perpetually lost. As if I don't typically or wholly identify. Sure, I have my element and my comfort zones, and when I really like people and truly feel like I appreciate them (or feel like I want to know them more on a personal level, regardless of romantic/platonic entanglement), I try to express or invite them into these said zones, whether they be physical (bar, apartment, etc.) or ideological (personal beliefs, political standings, being a closet anime kid). But it's not always that, I force people through these fiery loops to "earn" the right to get to know me better as a person, when in actuality I don't feel comfortable letting people get that far. It's a weird process, and allow me to illustrate it for you - the reader that may or may not be on the other end of this rant.

I am happy in my misery. That's the whole of what you should know about me as a person.

I feel fine leading the boring, lackluster life that I lead because I am a miracle in myself. Now, don't let that confuse you in my belief that I am a modern American god - I know some friends would argue that of my cockiness and self-absorbed, nonchalantly conceited existence - the fact that I exist out of all the sperm cells that came out of the father before me and paired with the mother that housed my for 9+ months. That all in itself, that I came to be into this world and became self-aware without any other factors making it more difficult for me than my own self, is a fucking miracle. Now, moving forward.

I am happy existing, I truly am, even though there are nights that I lay awake and wonder the what if's and feel like I'm not living up to a certain potential. But wait for that bit later. I am happy that I get to experience honest friendships. I've been in love. I know what a lot of other people may not or may have taken for granted (I, as well, have taken a lot for granted), but these things are not (despite the beginning of this rant) lost on me. No, I appreciate my begrudging obsession with pop culture and pop celebrity icons regardless of their power to stay in the spotlight. I am happy claiming to be a writer with a shitty string of poetry and short fiction in my wake to claim as mine. I am happy that I have to option to go to sleep every night hoping that I don't wake up, but despite my pessimistic tendencies, I  do anyway. Not to discount or exclude all the millions and millions of unfathomable cool things I get to experience and take for granted on the day to day.

However...

The only time I ever feel like I'm falling short is when I have to measure up to people around me, maybe not immediate circumstances or those far fetched ones (because I'm usually acquainted with college dropouts who understand my plight - and I'm not ever going to be the male equivalent to Taylor Swift or Beyonce) but when 20/30-somethings are portrayed - erroneously, I might add - as the pseudo-successful types with a disposable incomes and their only problem is finding someone who they can marry forever and ever, I feel inadequate. I know that's not uncommon. I know that I am a minnow in a stream of this particular thought. But that's the only time I ever feel like I hate being myself... when other [fictional/well-adjusted] people come into the picture. These fictional fucks that are the collective dream of what life should be like, when no one even knows how to really live until they're ready to die.

I often find myself wondering what life would be like if I secluded myself from the massive amounts of bullshit that's posted online/that I watch in horrible RomCom situations and honed in on the people around me. The real life people who struggle every day with self-identity issues and finding their own happiness. I wonder what life would be if I and everyone else in this whole goddamn world stopped dreaming these unattainable dreams that aren't even our own and just focused on the life in front of us. I never wanted a big house. Maybe a shack on a beach so I could die understanding the infinite nothing that exists. I never wanted a top-line sports car. I'm happy with the size of my penis, and I just want something that's reliable and can maybe take a hit or two and keep going through rain or snows or a fucking motorcycle to roam around the country nomadically without materialistic bindings. I never wanted a trophy wife with honor roll kids. I just want someone that I like to look at, who laughs at my dumb jokes and knows that even though I stumble and fall a lot, that I'll still do everything in my power to be the best that I can be for them... and maybe have a child that fucks up as much as I do that I can impart my terrible sage-like wisdom of "nothing's perfect, but things will be okay if you know that you never have to be perfect as long as you're happy with who you are". I never asked to be alive and live a life that I was happy or unhappy with, but I'm here and I'm grateful - I really am, despite all these self-analytical and doldrums shit that come out of me. It's all a venting process that I've found helps me understand the human condition, and despite my weird complex, I am - after all - human. I am alive and I'm human. I'm lost and I'm happy. I'm not every single person, but I am wholly myself. I just don't feel like that should be something to be ashamed of.

I'm too drunk for this shit right now.