diffuse. scattered. marginal. that's funtongue scatterplot
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0.5 Donut

Someone left a half-eaten Krispy Kreme crueller in the box of donuts in our office area. I'm storing it in the freezer for safe keeping. If they went to the trouble of replacing a half crueller, the obvious intention was for someone else to enjoy eating it.

:: Bryan Travis :: 03/10/2003 @ 12:06 :: [link] ::

Sometimes It's Dark

I could tell you countless things I don't like about myself, but the one thing I dread the most is that I have so many insecurities and dislike myself so. In this installment of funtongue scatterplot, we'll explore another neurosis of mine: profound introvertedness fueled by insecurities galore.

What a pisser to have an insistent preoccupation with one's own imperfections, not for the sake of improving, but for deprecation. Someone I used to work for told me I was a perfectionist. According to him, this was the reason I found it so difficult to delegate work to team members... I was afraid to fail and too encumbered with a self-imposed "to-do" list to dole out the tasks.

That was the first and only time I've been called a perfectionist. My desk and condo are way too cluttered for anyone else, myself included, to see past and recognize the underlying issue. It was easy to discount the conversation at the time, and even now, I think other terms would have been more fitting. OCD, for example, or maybe even "way too detail-oriented."

The irony of it all is that no one is going to read this post, but I'm obsessing over it as if the whole world were going to critique it. That statement reveals two problems. First, why must I always always strive for perfection, even when it doesn't matter? Second, why must I give a phuk what the world thinks? No offense, but impressing you, you, you, and especially YOU should not be the goal of my every action.

I used to be smart once. Not anymore. It started spiraling out of control long ago, the self-doubt. Each slip, mistake, and error was transformed into a puzzle piece. Each puzzle piece was assembled next to every other, one by one, until the mosaic emerged, a picture of me, a panorama of failure. That is what I see in the mirror.

It's no good if you can't have it all. Having it all, being the best at all things - isn't this the definition of a genius? Isn't this what I must achieve to earn my respect and admiration?

Knowledge is power, the secret, the key to being the best at all things. After molding myself into an excrutiatingly detail-oriented person so that I could collect every tidbit of knowledge, I found myself stranded in the middle of a vast sea of information overload, lacking the ability to disseminate the critical few because of a love for hoarding knowledge.

Cause and effect: I'm reactive to the blitz of the bits flowing by. I don't see the big picture - it's random. Without signal, I am uncertain of what is a viable strategy. The depth of my thoughts form rat-holes instead of a diverse root system. I lack strategy.

Of course, bit-obsession becomes the crux of everything's that's wrong with me. Processing all those bits, it becomes difficult to think quickly in a meeting. Creativity cannot thrive in such a mental wasteland, and thus a brainstorm inevitably collapses itself into a brain-tornado. As if in search of a Grand Unifying Theory, the theory of everything, it bores straight down, foolishly assuming the center of the earth and the center of the universe are the same point.

Oh, yeah, I can really beat myself up over this stuff. And you probably thought I was kidding. When nothing's good enough and every attempt to let go and just accept oneself and others internally translates into settling for less, self-directed loathing at one's own shortcomings has a powerful grip. It's like trying to pry apart two massive magnets.

There is no insightful perspective to conclude this post because I'm in a void, not a tunnel, and there is no light. Even in an endless tunnel, there is solace in knowing you can't go wrong by forging ahead - at least you tried. When plunged into the void of turbulent, murky waters, there is no delineated path, no way of distinguishing up from down, and even if there was, little hope of holding a steady course. There's no point in flailing your arms and legs; instead, you just hold your breath as long as you can, hope there's enough air in your lungs to float to the surface, and go with the flow.

:: Bryan Travis :: 03/09/2003 @ 12:22 :: [link] ::