It seems like people are blogging less. I have no proof of this, nor will I research it further—I just feel it somehow. I feel alone a lot. Feeling lonely is okay, because I’ve never really been good with people. I have a hard time relating to them. They don't make sense to me, as a whole. Individually, too, a lot.
I took my daughter to the zoo today. Walking around, some of the animals looked sick. A vulture was lying on its stomach in its big vulture cage, still breathing, but just lying there. One of the Rocky-mountain big-horn rams was lying in the shade, like in a pile of itself, sometimes lifting its head. An elephant tried drinking some water with its trunk, but didn't lift its trunk to its mouth, so the water just spilled back out of its trunk.
I saw a woman, around my age I think, with her little daughter. She was one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, whatever ‘beautiful’ means (I'll have to consult my Kant). She seemed like a very good mother. That, to me, is very attractive—someone with patience and compassion and empathy. She seemed to be going to all the same places my daughter and I were going, like the rain forest house, the carousel, etc. We made eye contact a couple times, and she smiled at me once. I wanted to walk up to her, as if I were a confident human being, say, “Hi. I feel silly. My name is Eric…”
I don’t do things like that. I regret that I didn’t do it this time. I keep imagining what her name is, have visions of us cuddling in bed with sunlight coming in through the window. While urging myself to just go talk to her, I kept thinking, “Why. I have nothing to offer. I’m broke. I have no job. I borrowed the money for this trip to the zoo. I have no goals. No ambition. I’m a horrible writer. I have crippling anxiety. OCD. Don’t unleash all this on her.”
So, I didn’t. In almost every situation, I think my anxiety will ruin everything, which causes my anxiety to ruin everything. Enough. I will never see her again, and it’s my fault. I don’t know if I would have even liked her, as a person. That doesn’t matter. I will never know. I'm not sure I'm emotionally prepared for another 'relationship'. I'm afraid.
My daughter is the only person who really seems to like me, I often feel. I love her. I dedicated Snowing Fireflies to her, and she smiled big when I showed her my proof copy. “It’s for you,” I said. She sat down in my chair and read it, smiling big: “To my daughter, Maya, who has more to teach me than I’m capable of learning.” That made me happy, seeing her happy.
I haven’t submitted anything in a while. It seems like a long time. I used to be obsessive about sending things out. Maybe I’m exhausted. I just haven’t been feeling it lately. I check my email constantly, still waiting for responses on things I’ve had out for a while. Stories, poems, novels. Meh.
I've been semi-intrigued by Facebook. I feel I will soon write an essay on the side effects of Facebook.
Fall semester begins Monday. This will be my last semester for my BA in English. After that I have no idea what I’m going to do. I don’t ever want to grow up. I’m almost 30 years old and I take Flintstones vitamins.