Australopithecus

My skin is turning a grey color, much like an old sick man’s skin does, right before he dies. Too much of me is like an old sick man, it’s really strange. I have an old man’s skin, knees, back, hearing, and memory. What’s next, libido? Maybe. Probably. Definitely.
This night obviously belongs to Lavos. But what about tomorrow night, or the night after? Or our children’s children?
I was talking to my mom earlier about my current life. I had just gotten home from my first class, and she tried to get on my case about getting a job, as she usually does whenever we make eye contact. And I finally realized the truth about why I haven’t gotten a job, that really should have been obvious from the start. I don’t care about it. I don’t care about any of this. My entire life to date has been me, pretending to care about school, and pretending to care about graduating or working or driving or… anything, really. The truth about my life is, I really don’t give a shit about much. I know I’ve said that before but it has never really clicked in my mind until now.
People ask me what I want to do with my life, and I answer, “I don’t know.”
Well, I guess the honest answer would be that I don’t care. I don’t care what I do with my life, frankly I think I would be unhappy with any career or calling. The only thing that has kept me in school is a desire to not disappoint my parents, and a fear of whatever invisible consequences my dad has in store for me if I drop out completely.
I don’t understand the minds of people who care about things. There is very little that actually matters to me, and most of it is stuff that really shouldn’t matter to anyone, like how my shirt fits me, or the symmetry of my coffee table.
I don’t really have a whole lot more to say about this. I told my mom (and later Katie,) that I am contemplating perhaps looking for an internship at a graphic design or publishing company or something. That might hold my interest a little better than nothing, which is what I am currently doing.
It is kind of depressing to realize that the big monumental reason for my lifetime of shining failure is exactly what the guidance counselor told me in fourth grade: that I just don’t care about schoolwork. But, I guess she was right. I don’t care about much of anything (except maybe being redundant, har har) and I don’t see anyway to change that.
So that’s where I am now. Nowhere, that is. I don’t want to do anything with my life but sleep, watch tv, and of course, make sweet sweet whoopie; and I can’t really think of any reason why I should do more than that. Except surviving, but that really only pushes you so hard.
Of course, throughout all of my violently inactive life I would want to continue drawing. I love to draw, and I always will, that’s a given. And of course, there will always be reading, and to a lesser extent, writing. But those are just the exercises of my mind, in spirit I will always be lying there lazily, thinking about how well my shirt fits and dreaming up new ways to organize my coffee table; and all will be right with the world.