my second steradian

Not filtering out.

I keep promising people things I can’t deliver. In every aspect of my life, to every person I know, in every conceivable meaning.

Some of the things I have done I can speak about, telling shameful stories of waiting until weeks - or months - after a due date before saying “sorry, I haven’t done any of this, and in fact I can’t.” Of claiming “depression stopped me” like that’s some kind of fucking excuse. I should know better than to take on this much stuff if I can’t manage it. This isn’t the first time my life has gone this way. For the last six years, every year, without fail, has followed this pattern. There’s always something, right? Some excuse? Bollocks.

There are other things of course which are worse even than that. Unspeakably bad things I do because I want people to be happy and I think promising them I can help will do that. But I can’t help. I’m not who I say I am. Things always end up worse, and nobody blames me. “He tried to help” but that’s not good enough. I didn’t try properly. I didn’t do what I said I would. I didn’t even really try; if I did I wouldn’t have watched quite that much TV, or read quite that much Wikipedia, or played quite that much 3D fucking pong. The number of hours I’ve spent playing flash games watching TV rather than doing what I had promised, over and over I would do; what is within my capacity to do; it’s outrageous.

My being a useless cunt isn’t a disease, it’s my being a useless cunt.

I’ve strayed again. I haven’t even hinted at the really bad shit. Again.

Of course people will respond to this. “Oh Michael you’re so wonderful you do so much don’t be so hard on yourself.” Bullshit. You think I don’t know what I’m doing here? You think I don’t know which buttons to press for sympathy and forgiveness? Phrase that “sorry I can’t” email just the right way and they apologise for asking in the first place. That won’t stop me claiming involvement, saying how great I am, boasting of my utility to others. I can move quickly enough from one thing to another, one person to the next, that nobody really sees what I’m doing. I can adjust the truth just enough that provided two worlds don’t collide - colleagues don’t become friends - I can get away with it. And when I can’t, I feign ignorance, that I never said that, that it’s not true, that really my unspoilt image should be maintained and it’s the fault of the discoverer that my flaws have been unveiled; it’s their imagination playing tricks on them, making them believe things that aren’t true.

I am an evil, horrible man. I don’t mind that. That doesn’t upset me. That’s not what makes me sad. What makes me sad is that even with manipulation and lying and all this time and energy, I’m still so transparent to so many, and just so unsuccessful. I’m twenty four. I can keep this up forever: middle class jobs and middle class friends. I can eventually get a degree and do some of this and that. But I’ll never excel at anything. I’ll never even be good enough at lying to successfully pretend I excel at anything. That’s the horrifying thought. I’m just another fucking pleb, pretending to be better than the rest, dreaming big dreams, but really living in the same pile of shit as the rest of you.

That enough of a reason to deserve hell?