Ugh. This is a common Taylor emission, though it's often internal; as my outside sags so goes my chest cavity. I get so tangled: infuriated and morose, lugubrious and loony, befuddled and ugly clear---I just can't seem to divide those sensations. I've also found that I want to be neat, but I'm just this side of far-gone slovenly; I'm extremely sensitive and intermittently callous; I'm a fence-sitter. I'm the lukewarm victual that is doomed to be spewed. Haha! I'm spewed. Nevermind.
I both detest and aggrandize myself. I have whimsically plotted (without fussing over details) to take over the world, complete w/ totalitarian propaganda, a slick veneer, and a huddle of yes-men to complete the package. And yet, I don't look in the mirror and see much. Oh, God gave me eyes---remarkable eyes, not so much for their sky-blue shimmer, but for the beauty I can see beneath the surface. I have legs to take me where I want to go, frail but capable fingers, etc. but I don't think I've used them as much. Persons devoid of my lackluster umph! would protest, and say "Well, why not start now?! Why not change? You're not dead yet! Why, you're only 27!" I would reply, "I've been trying. Twenty or so years---as soon as I knew something was wrong."
Yet, I realize there are so many problems within that I scarce have the energy to muster a smile unless I'm being all too jovial. I cannot, as Elizabeth magically does, summon a smile. It's as if whatever core hope existed within me has died. I can resurrect it temporarily on the Sabbath, but it wanes even as the day progresses. And there is no surer way to stifle its Phoenix flight than for me to attempt to be social. I'm sorry, btw, Sam for leaving. It was a nice party.
Ugh. I need to stop.