20100830 : watch the narcissist try to empathize and only narcissize more on his way to eventually empathizing and transcending his meager boarded-up ego

today is my parents thirty-fifth wedding anniversary.
i/we/no one knows when the last anniversary will come.
my mother has stage four advanced, recurrent, metastatic, and inoperable triple-negative breast cancer.
i am twenty-six years old and sitting in my parents basement.
i am not wearing a shirt, and i am sitting in the pitch black except for a muted 35-inch, so-archaic-that-i-cant-remember-the-name-for-non-flat-screen-television-sets, television-set flickering images in my peripheral vision.
my ears have headphones in them, but i have not selected any music to play and no music is playing.
my laptop is on my lap.
my lap is composed of a blanket over boxers from my kindergarten through fifth grade grammar school.

the elastic waist of my grammar school boxers has long been broken.

when i stand up, the grammar school boxers fall to the ground.

so when i stand up i hold on to the inelastic waist.

i think i started writing to feel less alone, but now i think i feel more alone than when i started or when i woke up 'which is saying something' (since i 'always' feel most alone right when i wake up in the morning).

i dont think its healthy for me to write anymore right now.

i try to do whatever is most healthy for me in the moment, but some/often times that which is most healthy in the moment is not the most healthy 25 or 900 moments from now.

i think i want to open gmail chat or facebook to feel less alone, but i am remembering from 30 minutes ago that i closed gmail chat and facebook because they made me feel more alone.

i think about all those vibrant green dots residing next to content names of acquaintances/girlfriends-friends-who-then-became-my-friends/teachers assistants/friends-from-law-school-i-havent-talked-to-in-three-years/friends-i-talk-to-weekly/friends-i-want-to-talk-to-more-but-feel-i-have-not-talked-to-them-in-too-long-and-that-this-is-my-fault/friends-that-save-my-life/my sister/my mom/current and past loves of my life.

i think that i am tragically wrong assuming they have happiness.

i think that i am more alone than everyone else because, mostly, i think that i am the only person who feels alone when this is quite obviously not reality and a natural effect from (thinking about) feeling lonely.

i re-read the second most recent sentence and feel nauseous: happiness is not a possession.

i think about erich fromm and his book 'to have or to be'.

i have only half-read 'to have or to be.'

i do not think happiness is a possession, but i think that my action depicts a philosophy that values happiness as a possession.

i wish i could stop thinking about you, but when we're not fucked is the only time i can accept the world being fucked (half the previous sentences contain invisible, oblique, parenthetical references to you).

i think if love is just acceptance of our own weakness and acceptance of an other as the antidote for this weakness, as the catalyst for the real-but-dormant-due-to-fear actualizing power we contain all the time.

i think inability to love is the insecurity and instability from holding our concept of ourselves as deities too close to our heart that our wombs become incinerators.

i think 'all this' (the above) is just a complex, convoluted way to come to terms with present loneliness caused by you, alternating, plugging me into the outlet to shine light in your room and then unplugging me from your wall prior to your exit (tho sometimes i think you will still stay in the room a few minutes after i have been unplugged, sitting in the dark, imagining my prongs sitting in the dark, blind to how close you are) and future loneliness caused by the premature, ghastly death of my mother, my best friend.