Dear Diary 1: Dox Report

A navel gazing diary entry about working out my finances, Kierkegaard & Doom

I’m not a stable person. Things go up and down. I haven’t been financially stable in my entire adult life. Longest job I had was just shy of two years. When I started living this way, the basic idea was, work as little as I have to, to be able to write books. Create art. Be a poetry guy, go be a guest on live-audience comedy podcasts. Then the years went by and I discovered that I fucking hate art. I hate making it, I hate watching it, and I hate artists. I hate every little thing about it.

Having read Kierkegaard I should have seen this coming. I didn’t. But you can count it as an empirical data point towards him being right. I also read “a million little pieces” by James Frey before I ever started drinking, and didn’t see that one coming either.

For a long time now I’ve been at a crossroads. I can keep living like this, it is meta-functional. It’s chaotic day to day but stabilized across the time-frame of years. But, the sole reason I was doing so, “to write the next great American novel”, to become an “artist”, is absolutely worthless to me now. The reason I wanted to do so in the first place was because the kind of life that’s otherwise presented to me, available to me, was absolutely worthless and meaningless. I never wanted to write, or create anything — I just didn’t want to do, or be, or have, anything else. It wasn’t an active desire. It was just the least worst option.