My Brain

[Matt Young 0]

I think we can all agree that Matt Young fucking DoP's sister would solve everyones problems.

 

Hmmm... Not a bad idea, my good man. No nasty foot shit, though.

[godthedog 0]

All this stuff about how it all starts with "YOU" and whatnot is bullshit. You are who you'll always be and that will never change. You need to move out to Hollywood do meth and write screenplays, you could even write a novel. Even if it never gets published maybe some crazy mixed up kid will find it washed up on the beach and it will change his life. You're not a hard working person but rather a creative person. You are the way you are because thats how you, deep down inside, really want to be. From the time you became aware of your continuous stream of thought, you began manufacturing this world of darkness you live in, so much that you halucinate that demons are going to eat you. That kind of mind control makes you much smarter than some douche with a handlebar mustache swinging a hammer all day building a park bench listen to that country music guy, ya know the one with the beard and American flag shirt. Folks here have been calling you a pussy, but this society tell us that we need to be a certain way and you have the BALLS to oppose it in everyway. You are a free independent thinker and it's people like you that leave a mark on this world. Everyone saying "You need your ass kicked and get with the program" and stuff like that are only trying it get you join them in THE MACHINE. After awhile a man is told "do what we say" "be a team player" "be a part of something bigger than yourself" "fall in line". What those statements really mean is "surrender yourself to us" "we now own you" "you are nothing". Don't bash your parents, they know something incredible is going to give way to your depressed slacker shell which is why they do their best to facilitate your needs and keep you from entering "The Real World" aka Hell. They sold thier souls a long time ago for thier basic human needs and don't want you to do the same. You got this world in your back pocket man, I love you.

 

Oh and don't fuck your sister or do anything sexual to her feet.

 

except for the last bit, i agree with all of this.

[At Home 0]

I agree with none of it, and I'm fairly sure it was a joke.

[PILLS! PILLS! PILLS! 0]

You're just aware of the glamour associated with bipolar disorder and approached it with that end in mind.

 

?

 

[Fuzzy Dunlop 0]

All this stuff about how it all starts with "YOU" and whatnot is bullshit. You are who you'll always be and that will never change. You need to move out to Hollywood do meth and write screenplays, you could even write a novel. Even if it never gets published maybe some crazy mixed up kid will find it washed up on the beach and it will change his life. You're not a hard working person but rather a creative person. You are the way you are because thats how you, deep down inside, really want to be. From the time you became aware of your continuous stream of thought, you began manufacturing this world of darkness you live in, so much that you halucinate that demons are going to eat you. That kind of mind control makes you much smarter than some douche with a handlebar mustache swinging a hammer all day building a park bench listen to that country music guy, ya know the one with the beard and American flag shirt. Folks here have been calling you a pussy, but this society tell us that we need to be a certain way and you have the BALLS to oppose it in everyway. You are a free independent thinker and it's people like you that leave a mark on this world. Everyone saying "You need your ass kicked and get with the program" and stuff like that are only trying it get you join them in THE MACHINE. After awhile a man is told "do what we say" "be a team player" "be a part of something bigger than yourself" "fall in line". What those statements really mean is "surrender yourself to us" "we now own you" "you are nothing". Don't bash your parents, they know something incredible is going to give way to your depressed slacker shell which is why they do their best to facilitate your needs and keep you from entering "The Real World" aka Hell. They sold thier souls a long time ago for thier basic human needs and don't want you to do the same. You got this world in your back pocket man, I love you.

 

Oh and don't fuck your sister or do anything sexual to her feet.

 

This is my favorite thing ever. I seriously got chills reading this. If I ever make it big in Hollywood, I'll be sure to thank Darth Vader for giving me the inspiration. Then I'll blow up a small planet.

[At Home 0]

[PUT THAT DICK IN MY MOUTH! 0]

I'm horrible at talking to people. Especially girls. I have friends who beg me to hang out with them, but I can't, because it's just so much work, showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, wearing something nice, trying to force conversation and at the same time sound natural, witty, interesting. If I ever do hang out with friends, we're watching the Cubs or drinking, or both, and if we're drinking, I'm only doing it to get completely wasted, because it's the only time I can be with people and not be miserable

 

Like crowds, drugs, and love, alcohol can befuddle the most lucid mind. Alcohol turns the concrete wall of isolation into a paper screen which the actors can tear according to their fancy, for it arranges everything on the stage of an intimate theatre. A generous illusion, and thus still more deadly.

 

In a gloomy bar where everyone is bored to death, a drunken young man breaks his glass, then picks up a bottle and smashes it against the wall. Nobody gets excited; the disappointed young man lets himself be thrown out. Yet everyone there could have done exactly the same thing. He alone made the thought concrete, crossing the first radioactive belt of isolation: interior isolation, the introverted separation between self and outside world. Nobody responded to a sign which he thought was explicit. He remained alone like the hooligan who burns down a church or kills a policeman, at one with himself but condemned to exile as long as other people remain exiled from their own existence. He has not escaped from the magnetic field of isolation; he is suspended in a zone of zero gravity. All the same, the indifference which greets him allows him to hear the sound of his own cry; even if this revelation tortures him, he knows that he will have to start again in another register, more loudly; with more coherence.

 

People will be together only in a common wretchedness as long as each isolated being refuses to understand that a gesture of liberation, however weak and clumsy it may be, always bears an authentic communication, an adequate personal message. The repression which strikes down the libertarian rebel falls on everyone: everyone's blood flows with the blood of a murdered Durruti. Whenever freedom retreats one inch, there is a hundred-fold increase in the weight of the order of things. Excluded from authentic participation, men's actions stray into the fragile illusion of being together, or else into its opposite, the abrupt and total rejection of society. They swing from one to the other like a pendulum turning the hands on the clock-face of death.

 

Whenever I meet a girl who's not completely hideous, I fall in love immediately. And by meet, I mean she could just make eye contact with me for one second from across the room, and there it is. It becomes an obsession. I make this girl into everything that I want her to be, occasionally blurring fantasy and reality. Of course this always ends in heartbreak. While this goes on, before the inevitable letdown, I skip everything else in my life. I don't care about my friends or family. Not really. I just use them for what I need: work, shelter, love. But I give nothing in return and that's how I like it. In my rare moments of lucidity, I realize what a horrible person I am, but it passes.

 

Love in its turn swells the illusion of unity. Most of the time it gets fucked up and miscarries. Its songs are crippled by fear of always returning to the same single note: whether there are two of us, or even ten, we will finish up alone as before. What drives us to despair is not the immensity of our own unsatisfied desires, but the moment when our newborn passion discovers its own emptiness. The insatiable desire to fall in love with so many pretty girls is born in anguish and the fear of loving: we are so afraid of never escaping from meetings with objects. The dawn when lovers leave each other's arms is the same dawn that breaks on the execution of revolutionaries without a revolution. Isolation a deux cannot confront the effect of general isolation. Pleasure is broken off prematurely and lovers find themselves naked in the world, their actions suddenly ridiculous and pointless. No love is possible in an unhappy world.

 

The boat of love breaks up in the current of everyday life.

 

Are you ready to smash the reefs of the old world before they wreck your desires? Lovers should love their pleasure with more consequence and more poetry. A story tells how Price Shekour captured a town and offered it to his favourite for a smile. Some of us have fallen in love with the pleasure of loving without reserve -- passionately enough to offer our love to the magnificent bed of a revolution.

 

I have slave fetishes

 

It was as if they were in a cage whose door was wide open without their being able to escape. Nothing outside the cage had any importance, because nothing else existed any more. They stayed in the cage, estranged from everything except the cage, without even a flicker of desire for anything outside the bars. it would have been abnormal -- impossible in fact -- to escape into something which had neither reality nor importance. Absolutely impossible. For inside this cage, in which they had been born and in which they would die, the only tolerable framework of experience was the Real, which was simply an irresistible instinct to act so that things should have importance. Only if things had some importance could one breathe, and suffer. it seemed that there was an understanding between them and the silent dead that it should be so, for the habit of acting so that things had some importance had become a human instinct, and one which was apparently eternal. Life was the important thing, and the Real was part of the instinct which gave life a little meaning. The instinct didn't try to imagine what might lie beyond the Real, because there was nothing beyond it. Nothing important. The door remained open and the cage became more and more painful in its Reality which was so important for countless reasons and in countless ways.

 

We have never emerged from the times of the slavers.

 

When I drive somewhere, I'm constantly worried that my car will break down. I never worry that I'd be injured in an accident; I'd almost welcome that. When I walk somewhere, I'm constantly worried that people are staring at me and laughing on the inside. I never worry that one of them might decide they want to kill me. When my parents are out of town, and I have the house to myself, late at night, I think there are demons living all around me, and this scares the hell out of me. I have to sleep with the TV and all the lights on. My neighbor told my parents that when they're gone, I never turn off the lights. I hate that fucking bitch. Bitch needs to mind her own business.

 

Malaise invades me as the crows around me grows. The compromises I have made with stupidity under the pressure of circumstances rush to meet me, swimming towards me in hallucinating waves of faceless heads. Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Cry, evokes for me something I feel ten times a day. A man carried along by a crowd, which only he can see, suddenly screams out in an attempt to break the spell, to call himself back to himself, to get back inside his own skin. The tacit acknowledgments, fixed smiles, lifeless words, listlessness and humiliation sprinkled in his path suddenly surge into him, driving him out of his desires and his dreams and exploding the illusion of 'being together'. People touch without meeting; isolation accumulates but is never realized; emptiness overcomes us as the density of the crowd grows. The crowd drags me out of myself and installs thousands of little sacrifices in my empty presence.

 

I have a piece of string from a broken lanyard that I play with constantly when I need to think. I literally can not think without it. I start freaking out. I tried to throw it away one time, but an hour later I was digging through the garbage, and heck, you'd really be surprised how much garbage can accumulate in an hour.

 

I want to join the Army. My parents won't let me. They say it's too dangerous. I tell them that I'm not afraid, but I can never tell them why I'm not afraid. They don't know how my brain is.

 

"It would be a drag to die so young". wrote Jacques Vaché two years before his suicide. if desperation at the prospect of surviving does not unite with a new grasp of reality to transform the years to come, only two ways out are left for the isolated man: the pisspot of parties and pataphysico-religious sects, or immediate death with Umour. A sixteen-year-old murderer recently explained: "I did it because I was bored." Anyone who has felt the drive to self-destruction welling up inside him knows with what weary negligence he might one day happen to kill the organizers of his boredom. One day. If he was in the mood.

 

After all, if an individual refuses both to adapt to the violence of the world, and to embrace the violence of the unadapted, what can he do? If he doesn't raise his will to achieve unity with the world and with himself to the level of coherent theory and practice, the vast silence of society's open spaces will raise around him the palace of solipsist madness.

 

[PUT THAT DICK IN MY MOUTH! 0]

PS don't listen to pbone he's a tool of the faceless bourgeoisie elite responsible for alienating man from himself and turning him into a soulless cog in the machine of late capitalism.

[At Home 0]

Cha bro I just want you to sell your soul

[Lt. Al Giardello 0]

You're all fucked up.

[At Home 0]

Deep, EHME. Deep.

[Guest C*Z*E*C*H]

You're just aware of the glamour associated with bipolar disorder and approached it with that end in mind.

 

?

Not glamour glamour, but I think it gets a little too romanticized sometimes, relative to other disorders. Take hypochondriasis. No glory in thinking you're sick all the time; that just makes you weak. But if you look in the wrong places, you find too much of that tortured genius bullshit about how Ernest Hemingway, Syd Barrett, Thomas Jefferson (seems like this dude has been retroactively diagnosed with everything), and at least three Renaissance painters all suffered from bipolar disorder and led fiery creative lives fueled by dueling forces of excitement and despair. (It's along the same lines of glorifying alcoholism.) I was in this position once when I was younger: when you're creative and your life sucks, to identify as bipolar looks pret-ty appealing. You're in good company, after all. Sure, the road to bipolar glory is filled with miserable fuckups who destroy the lives of their friends and family and are left pacing in circles to ward off the tardive dyskinesia that their heavy dosages of psychoactive drugs give them, but no, not you, you're gonna be one of the Good Ones.

 

Maybe it's just me, but it seemed like you were almost bragging about your various percentages. That last part about the pacing is why you, Matt, should really avoid trying to go for "75% symptomatic" or "95% agreement" when you're under the scrutiny of a professional who is about to prescribe you drugs that will irreparably fuck up your brain, and if you're even 5% like me, that scares the living shit out of you. Talk about a star-studded Who's Who: suicides and school-shooters are all on mind-scrambling pharmaceuticals.

[At Home 0]

But if you look in the wrong places, you find too much of that tortured genius bullshit about how Ernest Hemingway, Syd Barrett, Thomas Jefferson (seems like this dude has been retroactively diagnosed with everything), and at least three Renaissance painters all suffered from bipolar disorder and led fiery creative lives fueled by dueling forces of excitement and despair ... like me

 

[Guest C*Z*E*C*H]

Ha. Ha. I see what you did there. That was a good post. Dagger.

[PUT THAT DICK IN MY MOUTH! 0]

when you're creative and your life sucks, to identify as bipolar looks pret-ty appealing. You're in good company, after all.

 

You don't even really need the "when you're creative" part. When you're just a regular fuck-up who's going nowhere in life the idea that none of your problems are really your fault and that you're only an antisocial creep because a medical condition makes you that way is mighty appealing in and of itself, sans any romanticized notions of tortured artistes. Like, I really don't see Matt Young as the type of guy who'd latch on to a personality disorder because he thinks it'll put him in the company of Ernest Hemingway.

[Nighthawk 0]

I was just fucked up because I was beaten and molested as a child. No brain disorders. You guys are a bunch of queers.

[Darth Vader 0]

It's sounds like you need to be beaten and molestered some more. No manners, none at all.

[Bruiser Chong 0]

I didn't bother to read anything past the first page, so if this was covered already, well, get off my case!

 

It sounds like your parents are the sort of folks who buy their kids off in exchange to have the ability to indirectly run their lives. It sounds like they have no issues over making sure you're okay financially, but what does that matter if they don't even consider what you want in your life? Stopping that isn't even about "being a man." It's about being an individual and not what your parents want. If you aren't slanging crack rocks or raping bitches, why are on earth should they be opposed to you doing your own thing?

 

Reading your post, I doubt you haven't shown signs of depression (and yes, you ARE depressed) around your parents. If they're honestly fine with you remaining in your current psychological condition just because it means you're doing what they want, then they're shitty parents. At any rate, it's time to start doing what you need to do in order to be happy. Get a job. Move out. There will be difficulties and it's always easier to respond ways out of your situation with, "Yeah, but..." If, however, you're truly ready to change things, you'll do it and not look for excuses not to. Your parents aren't going to live forever. No need to put yourself (or rather, keep yourself) in a position that only makes them happy.

[Obi Chris Kenobi 0]

You're just aware of the glamour associated with bipolar disorder and approached it with that end in mind.

 

?

Not glamour glamour, but I think it gets a little too romanticized sometimes, relative to other disorders. Take hypochondriasis. No glory in thinking you're sick all the time; that just makes you weak. But if you look in the wrong places, you find too much of that tortured genius bullshit about how Ernest Hemingway, Syd Barrett, Thomas Jefferson (seems like this dude has been retroactively diagnosed with everything), and at least three Renaissance painters all suffered from bipolar disorder and led fiery creative lives fueled by dueling forces of excitement and despair. (It's along the same lines of glorifying alcoholism.) I was in this position once when I was younger: when you're creative and your life sucks, to identify as bipolar looks pret-ty appealing. You're in good company, after all. Sure, the road to bipolar glory is filled with miserable fuckups who destroy the lives of their friends and family and are left pacing in circles to ward off the tardive dyskinesia that their heavy dosages of psychoactive drugs give them, but no, not you, you're gonna be one of the Good Ones.

 

Maybe it's just me, but it seemed like you were almost bragging about your various percentages. That last part about the pacing is why you, Matt, should really avoid trying to go for "75% symptomatic" or "95% agreement" when you're under the scrutiny of a professional who is about to prescribe you drugs that will irreparably fuck up your brain, and if you're even 5% like me, that scares the living shit out of you. Talk about a star-studded Who's Who: suicides and school-shooters are all on mind-scrambling pharmaceuticals.

 

Maybe this is a topic within itself, but I have to agree with this last bit. The drugs they give you really do ultimately fuck you up even more. Your whole body becomes reliant on them, so when you do eventually come to ween yourself off them, it makes you feel worse then you did before you started. A few years ago there was a drug called seroxate that was all the rage to give to young Teenagers for depression. It was later found out to heighten depression and increase the urge to self harm and other crap like that. It was later banned from being subscribed to anyone under 21 years old - this was found out after someone I knew had been taken it for 5 years, since 16, and totally messed them up.

 

Sorry for going off topic, but if you have decided to go talk to someone about whats going on in your brain, then I'd suggest you really think hard about agreeing to taking any drugs they offer. Obviously the price the US has on perscriptions is different to over here in the UK, so I'm sure that will be a factor. Do research before you swallow.

[BUTT 0]

I'm horrible at talking to people. Especially girls. I have friends who beg me to hang out with them, but I can't, because it's just so much work, showering, shaving, brushing my teeth, wearing something nice, trying to force conversation and at the same time sound natural, witty, interesting. If I ever do hang out with friends, we're watching the Cubs or drinking, or both, and if we're drinking, I'm only doing it to get completely wasted, because it's the only time I can be with people and not be miserable

 

Like crowds, drugs, and love, alcohol can befuddle the most lucid mind. Alcohol turns the concrete wall of isolation into a paper screen which the actors can tear according to their fancy, for it arranges everything on the stage of an intimate theatre. A generous illusion, and thus still more deadly.

 

In a gloomy bar where everyone is bored to death, a drunken young man breaks his glass, then picks up a bottle and smashes it against the wall. Nobody gets excited; the disappointed young man lets himself be thrown out. Yet everyone there could have done exactly the same thing. He alone made the thought concrete, crossing the first radioactive belt of isolation: interior isolation, the introverted separation between self and outside world. Nobody responded to a sign which he thought was explicit. He remained alone like the hooligan who burns down a church or kills a policeman, at one with himself but condemned to exile as long as other people remain exiled from their own existence. He has not escaped from the magnetic field of isolation; he is suspended in a zone of zero gravity. All the same, the indifference which greets him allows him to hear the sound of his own cry; even if this revelation tortures him, he knows that he will have to start again in another register, more loudly; with more coherence.

 

People will be together only in a common wretchedness as long as each isolated being refuses to understand that a gesture of liberation, however weak and clumsy it may be, always bears an authentic communication, an adequate personal message. The repression which strikes down the libertarian rebel falls on everyone: everyone's blood flows with the blood of a murdered Durruti. Whenever freedom retreats one inch, there is a hundred-fold increase in the weight of the order of things. Excluded from authentic participation, men's actions stray into the fragile illusion of being together, or else into its opposite, the abrupt and total rejection of society. They swing from one to the other like a pendulum turning the hands on the clock-face of death.

 

Whenever I meet a girl who's not completely hideous, I fall in love immediately. And by meet, I mean she could just make eye contact with me for one second from across the room, and there it is. It becomes an obsession. I make this girl into everything that I want her to be, occasionally blurring fantasy and reality. Of course this always ends in heartbreak. While this goes on, before the inevitable letdown, I skip everything else in my life. I don't care about my friends or family. Not really. I just use them for what I need: work, shelter, love. But I give nothing in return and that's how I like it. In my rare moments of lucidity, I realize what a horrible person I am, but it passes.

 

Love in its turn swells the illusion of unity. Most of the time it gets fucked up and miscarries. Its songs are crippled by fear of always returning to the same single note: whether there are two of us, or even ten, we will finish up alone as before. What drives us to despair is not the immensity of our own unsatisfied desires, but the moment when our newborn passion discovers its own emptiness. The insatiable desire to fall in love with so many pretty girls is born in anguish and the fear of loving: we are so afraid of never escaping from meetings with objects. The dawn when lovers leave each other's arms is the same dawn that breaks on the execution of revolutionaries without a revolution. Isolation a deux cannot confront the effect of general isolation. Pleasure is broken off prematurely and lovers find themselves naked in the world, their actions suddenly ridiculous and pointless. No love is possible in an unhappy world.

 

The boat of love breaks up in the current of everyday life.

 

Are you ready to smash the reefs of the old world before they wreck your desires? Lovers should love their pleasure with more consequence and more poetry. A story tells how Price Shekour captured a town and offered it to his favourite for a smile. Some of us have fallen in love with the pleasure of loving without reserve -- passionately enough to offer our love to the magnificent bed of a revolution.

 

I have slave fetishes

 

It was as if they were in a cage whose door was wide open without their being able to escape. Nothing outside the cage had any importance, because nothing else existed any more. They stayed in the cage, estranged from everything except the cage, without even a flicker of desire for anything outside the bars. it would have been abnormal -- impossible in fact -- to escape into something which had neither reality nor importance. Absolutely impossible. For inside this cage, in which they had been born and in which they would die, the only tolerable framework of experience was the Real, which was simply an irresistible instinct to act so that things should have importance. Only if things had some importance could one breathe, and suffer. it seemed that there was an understanding between them and the silent dead that it should be so, for the habit of acting so that things had some importance had become a human instinct, and one which was apparently eternal. Life was the important thing, and the Real was part of the instinct which gave life a little meaning. The instinct didn't try to imagine what might lie beyond the Real, because there was nothing beyond it. Nothing important. The door remained open and the cage became more and more painful in its Reality which was so important for countless reasons and in countless ways.

 

We have never emerged from the times of the slavers.

 

When I drive somewhere, I'm constantly worried that my car will break down. I never worry that I'd be injured in an accident; I'd almost welcome that. When I walk somewhere, I'm constantly worried that people are staring at me and laughing on the inside. I never worry that one of them might decide they want to kill me. When my parents are out of town, and I have the house to myself, late at night, I think there are demons living all around me, and this scares the hell out of me. I have to sleep with the TV and all the lights on. My neighbor told my parents that when they're gone, I never turn off the lights. I hate that fucking bitch. Bitch needs to mind her own business.

 

Malaise invades me as the crows around me grows. The compromises I have made with stupidity under the pressure of circumstances rush to meet me, swimming towards me in hallucinating waves of faceless heads. Edvard Munch's famous painting, The Cry, evokes for me something I feel ten times a day. A man carried along by a crowd, which only he can see, suddenly screams out in an attempt to break the spell, to call himself back to himself, to get back inside his own skin. The tacit acknowledgments, fixed smiles, lifeless words, listlessness and humiliation sprinkled in his path suddenly surge into him, driving him out of his desires and his dreams and exploding the illusion of 'being together'. People touch without meeting; isolation accumulates but is never realized; emptiness overcomes us as the density of the crowd grows. The crowd drags me out of myself and installs thousands of little sacrifices in my empty presence.

 

I have a piece of string from a broken lanyard that I play with constantly when I need to think. I literally can not think without it. I start freaking out. I tried to throw it away one time, but an hour later I was digging through the garbage, and heck, you'd really be surprised how much garbage can accumulate in an hour.

 

I want to join the Army. My parents won't let me. They say it's too dangerous. I tell them that I'm not afraid, but I can never tell them why I'm not afraid. They don't know how my brain is.

 

"It would be a drag to die so young". wrote Jacques Vaché two years before his suicide. if desperation at the prospect of surviving does not unite with a new grasp of reality to transform the years to come, only two ways out are left for the isolated man: the pisspot of parties and pataphysico-religious sects, or immediate death with Umour. A sixteen-year-old murderer recently explained: "I did it because I was bored." Anyone who has felt the drive to self-destruction welling up inside him knows with what weary negligence he might one day happen to kill the organizers of his boredom. One day. If he was in the mood.

 

After all, if an individual refuses both to adapt to the violence of the world, and to embrace the violence of the unadapted, what can he do? If he doesn't raise his will to achieve unity with the world and with himself to the level of coherent theory and practice, the vast silence of society's open spaces will raise around him the palace of solipsist madness.

 

Oh man, I KNEW this guy was smarter than all of us! DAMN!

[The Niggardly King 0]

blah blah blah

 

Hey man, great post.

 

[The Niggardly King 0]

Oh man, I KNEW this guy was smarter than all of us! DAMN!

 

Make sure his cock is out next time before you start the verbal BJ

[Matt Young 0]

when you're creative and your life sucks, to identify as bipolar looks pret-ty appealing. You're in good company, after all.

 

You don't even really need the "when you're creative" part. When you're just a regular fuck-up who's going nowhere in life the idea that none of your problems are really your fault and that you're only an antisocial creep because a medical condition makes you that way is mighty appealing in and of itself, sans any romanticized notions of tortured artistes. Like, I really don't see Matt Young as the type of guy who'd latch on to a personality disorder because he thinks it'll put him in the company of Ernest Hemingway.

 

That's the thing- I'm not exactly antisocial. Half the time, I choose to stay home away from people, but there's another equal or greater part of me that loves to go out and socialize. I'm pretty sure most people here who have talked to me on Xbox Live or the phone would say that I'm a pretty engaging conversationalist. When I'm around a bunch of people, I'll talk to anyone and everyone. It's just that sometimes I want to be alone for days at a time, and I don't know why.

 

Do research before you swallow.

 

LOL.