Another weekend is coming to an end. And I am glad.
I am angry at myself, angry and bitter that I am cooped up like this. I have not set foot outside the apartment all day, except to visit the gym. I did a little housework, but not a lot, but just continued to seethe inside.
I hate this. I hate myself. I hate living like this, like a snivelling, petulant coward, whining about his loneliness yet not even smiling at his co-workers. Why can I not just stop being a selfish, snobbish egotist and open up to other people?
But I don't. I sit here, at the computer, again, and whine. Impotent rage builds inside me, rage at this imprisonment, disgust at the cowardly refusal to get involved, to help people, to make a difference in my community.
If I were to die, what difference would it make? Whose life would be worsened? No one's, it is only the loss of a silent, invisible presence whom no one loves and no one will mourn. Yet even the tiniest effort to take steps towards renewal refuse to be made.
They say the punishment for misanthropy is death. Then, here I come.
Soc-phob, Oct. 19, 1997