"I wanted to be a man, to be normal and assured, but when you are an effeminate kind of shy weirdo who can’t even look at someone in the eyes there is some work to do."

« La grande fatigue de l’existence n’est peut-être en somme que cet énorme mal que l’on se donne pour demeurer 20, 40 ans, davantage, raisonnable, pour ne pas être simplement profondément soi-même, c’est-à-dire immonde, atroce, absurde. Cauchemar d’avoir à présenter toujours comme un petit idéal universel, surhomme du matin au soir, le sous-homme claudicant qu’on nous a donné. »
-Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Le voyage au bout de la nuit.

I always ask myself what I’m doing here, why I am so different from people. I have so much anguish every day it is incredible. I feel like I’m from another world when I see people talking to each other, exchanging naturally their thoughts while I’m just watching that like a stranger, like if all that is said is not relevant to me, or too complex I don’t know… I have the capacity of attention of an autistic fellow, I’m wondering most of the time. 

But I achieve to be everywhere, to do quite well in all I undertake, for an obscure reason. I’m really lucky because by dealing mostly with my own thoughts I don’t always end up too low. Jasus it is hard to exist, I am too cowardly for that, I’m not made for that. I mean I’m made to swim, play with balls, have sex and all sorts of stuff that just need an instinct and a pre-reflexive composition of rapport with things. 

That’s the best way for me to be happy, it’s very childish and doggy actually… I think dogs and children have the key to ataraxia. Existence in society just escapes me, I’m too heavy for it, I just can’t grasp the fineness of it. Where there is reason there is less fun to me. 

Among humans women are the worst to understand for me obviously. I really like women in fact, I could just watch them all day long. But if you want to go further with them you have to be a man, to exist. My insertion to society was so violent I got many injuries. I wanted to be a man, to be normal and assured, but when you are an effeminate kind of shy weirdo who can’t even look at someone in the eyes there is some work to do.

I started to put so much pressure on myself to become normal that the stress drove me to pull out my hair. Now after ten years of trichotillomania and all the package of psychological symptoms I’m a wee bit better. But instead of turning me into a man, it just made the contrary. Being a queer with eyelashes drawn in eyeliner and eyebrows in crayon, most of the time pulling your hair out in a semi-conscious state just doesn’t help you to feel OK. 

But I don’t care, I don’t complain, everybody has problems, and if I had the choice of being something other than a “trichster”, like being fat, small or ugly I don’t know if I would have changed. Henceforth I am tired of haranguing myself, it’s too late, I’m a too special of a case. I just live and chill to wash my head from all that shite. But there is some work to do...

I feel so much better though, at least I can sincerely laugh from the deep of the belly. Also I can look at myself in a mirror and like it; actually I do it all the time like a fucking narcissistic parakeet. 

Well… Here is the hidden part of me I would definitely like to hide behind the social underwear which is dignity and proprieties. 

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