People keep telling me I need to step outside of my comfort zone. I don’t have one of those. The definition of a comfort zone seems to be things people do every day and have become accustomed to. Habits are things people do every day, but a lot of habits don’t really comfort people. For example, biting your fingernails is a habit, but I’ve never seen anybody biting their fingernails who looked comfortable. Smoking cigarettes is a habit, too, but now, you can only see people shivering outside while they do it. They don’t look very comfy, either, but people can get used to almost anything, even torture. If they’ve been convinced that they deserve to be tortured, they’ll even find a new torturer when the original one wears out or dies.
Loneliness is when you can’t find anyone who sees the world the way you do. It’s made of never watching football and not wanting to shop or be entertained anymore. It’s made of not wanting to compete with anybody for anything but being forced to compete anyway. Everything has been turned into a competition, even singing and dancing, and most competitions only have one winner. You can watch all the entrants’ love for music and dance be transformed into pain as, one by one, they are told they aren’t good enough to be number one and eliminated. Number one gets all the prize money and the chance to be able to keep singing and dancing instead of something else for a living, like asking people for proof of medical insurance. People with crushed spirits are at a disadvantage in competitions because they have trouble finishing things.
What you are reading right now might become the world’s longest suicide note because that’s the only competition I think I might be able to win. I might die of natural causes before I finish it, though. First off, dead people don’t buy anything, so the current record holder was nowhere near the top of my search results. It took say more time than I thought it would to find out that in 2011, a guy named Mitchell Heisman, who killed himself on the steps of Harvard University, left a 1,904 page suicide note—-and that didn’t even include a manifesto. I don’t know yet whether the pages were double-spaced or not. What I did find out using my phone calculator is that if I write one page a day, to have a shot at winning this contest, I’ll have to stay alive for five years, 2 months and 20 more days.
To make the thought of having to stay alive that much longer bearable, I had no choice but to sign up for some modern jazz dance classes. I’m probably going to have to do more than that, though. Who knows? If I can finish writing 1905 pages, I might be so proud of myself that I’ll change my mind. I’ll just have to resist the temptation to speed it up and write 10 pages a day, but so badly that I bore myself to death before I even get close. Did I mention that his suicide note has gotten some positive reviews on Goodreads? Maybe the worst thing about the contemplation of impending death is the desire to achieve some kind of immortality that so often accompanies it. Page 2 tomorrow.