chapter 4: weeds

The man in the brown hat is outside of my house. I slept all day yesterday. I guess the Benadryl really worked. I was in such a deep sleep that I forgot to feed my cats. It makes me feel completely terrible. Knowing my cats were scared or nervous always floors me. Drives me to tears. Humans are scared and nervous. Cats shouldn’t have to go through all that. I heard once that Bukowski always played up how much he liked cats just to be a contrarian. He thought the juxtaposition of his macho, beer drinking image offset by his soft demeanor around cats would surprise people. He did it just to fuck with them. I guess I’m the opposite of Bukowski. The second I’m around a cat I just can't control myself. I want to love them. Protect them. Shield them from the world. It gets really embarrassing sometimes. If there was a way to not completely melt when a cat came around I would do it, but I can’t. It’s just the way things are.

I don’t know what to say to the girl from the brewery. What can you say to a girl like that? She’s so interesting. So mysterious. And I’m just: nervous. The idea of asking her out on a date is completely out of the question. I cannot think of anything more intimidating than sitting across the table from someone. Nothing to hide behind. No props. No buffer. All your nervous energy just pushed back inside of you, and a whole room full of people staring. Waiting for the inevitable awkward pause. Waiting for it all to fall apart. It is the scariest situation I can possibly imagine. When I’ve had a few drinks I’ll think of something to say.

Although the last thing I want to do right now is be around this girl, it is also all I can think about. I don’t know why. I know she’s asexual. I know there will not be some happy ending. It’s weird that something like sex determines who we decide to spend the rest of our lives with. Some of my best friends are my favorite people to be around, but I don’t want to have sex with them so we live in separate homes.

I know that eventually this girl will see the real me. She’ll get bored, tired, or embarrassed of me. It will happen, but right now all I can think about is how great it would be just to be around her. The reason I want to be around her is probably very simple: I just want to see someone beautiful. Being around a beautiful girl is the most exciting thing a person can do. When you really think about it, beauty is inherent to survival. It is the reason we kill weeds, and smell flowers. Art is simply a tool for survival. A caveman who could have created art would have been very radical. He would have become a god. He would have been worshipped. All the other ugly cavemen would protect him, just because he could make beautiful things. The way the world is now, though, the act of not creating art is truly radical. Imagine if someone didn’t paint their house. That would be a statement. A car without a paint job. A person who wore plain brown clothes. A tv show of ugly actors reading an instruction manual. In fact that would probably be considered art, because it is the most unique thing a person could do. Art is just doing the opposite of what is expected.

They always say art is at the top of the hierarchy of needs, but I believe is at the bottom. Beauty precedes all forms of survival. If you do not possess, or create something beautiful then you have no chance. Beauty is really all that our minds know. The only interesting thing about a person. The only thing that separates humans is their perception of what is beautiful. If you thought a pile of trash was beautiful, then you would be an avant-garde artist. I personally love looking at, and smelling feces, but I would never share that with someone. I’m an eccentric masquerading as an average joe. I even wear a plain black hat. If people knew that I liked feces, they would think I was some sort of pervert. I definitely would not hang up pictures of my own fecal matter around my house. I think we all probably love our own feces. That is why we create them. It’s art.

The sooner I start drinking beer, the sooner I can start talking to the girl. I started drinking beer at 9:00 am, and now it is past noon, but I don’t feel relaxed at all. My stomach hurts, and I feel weak. I haven’t been drinking fast enough. I can’t even get motivated enough to get drunk. Sometimes I just absolutely hate myself.

The man in the brown hat is outside my window, but if I keep the curtains closed there is no way to tell if he is really there, or if he has left. I am still not sure if he exists or not. I am leaning toward the fact that he isn’t real. This of course, would mean that I am insane, but insane people don’t know they are insane do they? Does the fact that I am questioning my sanity mean that I am sane? I should see a doctor, but I don’t know how to check if I have insurance or not. Even if I did, how do you find a doctor? On your first visit aren’t you just supposed to get a physical? Could I set up a visit with a new doctor to see if I am insane or not? If I did all this, what would I say? Would I tell him that there is a man in a brown hat watching me? If I said that then he would say that I am crazy, there is no question about that. So what is the point of going in and saying that? He wouldn’t come back to my house and wait to see if he also saw the man in the brown hat. If the man is real, and I tell the doctor he is there I will still be misdiagnosed as schizophrenic. Therefore, going to a doctor will get me no closer to the truth. I think I would rather stay at home and save $300, and a lot of waiting around in a tiny white room.

The real easy solution to this whole problem is to have someone else look for me. So far, no one else has been here when he is here. That is another pretty good sign that he might just be some manifestation of my mind. There is also the chance that the person will lie to make me feel better, and say he is not there. There is another even crazier chance that I am completely insane, and the other person will also be a delusion. I am sounding completely paranoid, but I can’t help it. The girl at the brewery also seems made up. I don’t even know her name. If I am insane then I cannot trust myself, but if the man is real, no one will believe me, and they will call me crazy anyway.

I am thinking way too critically about this to be sane or normal. Most people just believe what their doctor says. That is why everyone is mentally ill these days. They feel sad, they go to the doctor and tell him they are sad, and then he tells them they are depressed. Then they believe that they are depressed, and they act like they are depressed. Doctors confirm whatever you think is wrong with your mind. There is no way for them to know. They don’t examine your brain. They don’t live in your thoughts. If you say you are anxious, then you have anxiety. People never question doctors, especially when it comes to their mind. It is way easier to say you have some nice little disorder. Then they can give you a sugar pill, and you placebo your way to normalcy. If you didn’t have any mental illness though, I guess you would be a psychopath. Psychopaths are the most well-adjusted members of society. They have no worries. No anxieties. They do exactly what they want to do, and they have no guilt for doing so. That must be the most freeing experience in the entire world. I am either far too crazy, or far too sane. I’m starting to believe there is not any difference. Just a different point of view.