I’ve woken up in a bad mood the past three or four days in a row. I have no idea why. It’s understandable, but not something I want to deal with at the moment. My sleep, never good in the best of the times, is all over the fucking map right now. I was so tired last night, I wanted to go to bed at 11 p.m. I haven’t gone to bed at that time in…ever, unless I’m sick. But, I have been known to doze throughout the day if I’m sick or depressed. Not really sleeping, but not NOT sleeping, either. Last night, I was too exhausted to move, but I couldn’t fall asleep, either. I didn’t manage to fall asleep until 3:30 a.m. or 4:00 a.m. Or rather, that’s when I put myself to bed. When I actually fell asleep, I’m not sure. Time has no meaning. Life has no meaning. I know the latter is not true, but it feels that way.
Actually, I don’t know the latter is true. I just assume it’s true. I’ve never felt life to have any meaning, but I assume there must be one. I mean, we’re alive. It would be a pretty heightened sense of farce if this was all for naught. Or for some higher being’s amusement. Which it might be. Who knows? I am not a theologist nor a philosopher. The point is that I’m tired, and not in the way I normally am. Way back many decades ago, I used to sleep four hours a night. There was a brief time (a semester) when it was under four hours. It was four hours a night for most of college and roughly a decade after. Then, through the aid of taiji, I managed to stretch it out to six hours. It was still me going to bed at five or six in the morning and getting up six hours later, though. Before the self-isolation started…what was that a month ago? A month and a half? Whatever. I had been working on making my sleep schedule more ‘normal’ for lack of a better world. Or rather, more day-based. I started pushing my sleep time ahead little by little, and before all this, I was hitting 2 a.m. as a regular bedtime. Now, it’s three or four in the morning again, and it’s either five hours of sleep or eight. Which I never get unless I’m sick. Am I sick? Who knows?
One of the hardest things about covid-19 is that it’s invisible so it’s hard to see the tangible effects. When I’m outside, I look around, and everything looks the same as before. It’s spring now, and there are birds singing, clear blue skies, and it’s starting to heat up. There are people golfing and playing games on their front lawn. Which makes me angry, by the way, but I acknowledge that they could be practicing proper social-distancing protocol while cavorting. Even if they aren’t, there’s nothing I can do about it but continue to do my best practices. I’m just afraid that as the weather gets better, there will be more people disregarding social distancing practices.
Side Note: I find it sickly ironic that the same people who years ago were yelling about how they would be the best soldiers in any war ever can’t even social distance for a month without losing their minds. I’m not one of those people who are dismissive of people struggling with staying home, but it does say something about us as a people that we’re having this hard of a time doing it. Especially the people who think they’re warriors.
I’ve heard the sentiment that our forefathers and mothers went to war, the least we can do is stay home. I think it’s harder in some ways because it’s so comprehensive. Ideally, we’re not supposed to interact with anyone who isn’t in our cohabiting self-isolation. For me, that would be everyone except my cat. I’ve only been out once in the past month–to the pharmacy–and my brother has been over twice (making me freak out each time even though we followed all the proper protocol) and that’s it.
I’ve said it before, but I’m not suffering much during the day although I’m surly these days. I’m not any more anxious than I was a month ago, but that’s because I’m anxious all the time, anywy. I think this is the worst-case scenario (a worst-case scenario at any rate), and my mind is better equipped to deal with that. Like, my brain thinks it’s the worst-case scenario all the time, anyway, so, weirdly, it feels better when the outside world matches my inner feelings.
Sharp turn to another topic: relationships. I love reading advice columns. I call them my stories, and I think how I’d answer the letters. I’ve toyed with it myself because I’m much better at telling other people what to do with their lives than trying to fix mine. I’ve written many times how I didn’t really want a romantic relationship as traditionally defined and why I am not suited for one. The thing, though, is how much it underlines what an outlier I am. I’m used to this because I am weird in almost everything. Or invisible. Not black or white. Not gay or straight or trans. Not attached to the term ‘woman’, but definitely not a man. Don’t like non-binary, either. Gender fluid is better, but not quite right, either. Less importantly, I’m not a theist, but I’m not an atheist. I said I was agnostic for many years, but it’s not that either, really. It’s more I’m apathetic to the issue. I believe there is something bigger than each individual person, but I don’t care to explore what that is. I feel somewhat the same when it comes to my sexuality. Bisexual will do in a pinch–don’t like pansexual or omnisexual–but I prefer just to say I’m sexual–which is eye-rolly in and of itself.
Also, in being Asian, I don’t exist in this country. Except for food and now, a convenient scapegoat for COVID-19. Parsing that even further, I’m Taiwanese, not Chinese, which is really hard for Americans to grasp. Whenever race comes up, Asian people aren’t included. The only group even further ignored than Asians is Native Americans.
Anyway, one of the things Doctor Nerdlove says to console his readers who have insecurities about their dicks is that the vast majority of women don’t come from P-I-V sex. This is true. It is good for het dudes to know this. However, some of us do. I do. It’s my favorite way to come. And I feel that it’s not ok to say it. Don’t get me wrong. I dig all the variety of ways of coming, but I really like P-I-V, and I feel like a cad for voicing that opinion.
It’s just hard to look at myself and think of why anyone would want to date me. I have a million of intolerances and allergies, which makes me a barrel of fun to be around. It’s better now than it was ten years ago, but it’s still difficult. I only see myself in things I don’t like or can’t do. I am GF/DF and still trying to figure out what else I have a reaction to. I’m allergic to almost every living thing around me and all synthetic scents. I don’t like movies or TV for the most part, and I just don’t get a lot of what other people dig. I rarely talk about it, but it makes me feel very isolated. 95% of popular things don’t interest me at all, and what I like, it’s hard to find other who are into it as well. As a woman, I don’t like many of the so-called feminine traits/interests. I don’t care about makeup or fashion, and I am not a parent. I don’t knit or sew or craft in any way.
My interests tend to skew more masculine–weapons and Dark Souls. Dark Souls is a good example of how niche my interests are. Yes, it’s a wildly popular game and has helped shape the games industry in the past several years, but it’s still niche. The series (I, II, II, and the original remastered) has sold 25 million copies. In comparison, the best-selling Collar Duty game* is Black Ops, which has sold nearly 31 million copies on its own.
I’ve run out of steam. I just don’t care right now. I think I need a nap.
*Call of Duty.