Letters To A Young Blogger

I am one hour away from going fucking mental. For the past twenty-four hours, I have been almost completely cut off from human interaction; save for the one or two times I left my apartment to check my mail and speak to the delivery guy with my lunch. Other than those few times, I am completely alone. Every interaction I had today was electronic, all of my work has been on the internet, I live by myself, I don't have cable, and I have watched every DVD I own. This is not only incredibly creepy, but makes me wonder how this bodes for life in my seventies.

The realization first hit me over cereal and coffee. I live in a converted townhouse, so one can stand in my living room or bedroom and see the entire apartment. Staring straight back at my unkempt bed, their was no question: I am the only person living here. For the rest of the day, I became a caged animal in my own home. I write. I listen to my iPod. I try to pretend that Facebook is a recreation, and not mild voyeurism. As I hope you can tell, I'm not a fan of days like these. Unfortunately, it seems to come with my line of work. Deadlines and writing partners sometimes means you have no choice but to ignore the world. On the bright side, it gives you an opportunity to listen to 1965 and Mellon Collie and The Infinite Sadness in, give or take, five years.

I've often wondered about other people's perspectives. No matter how many stories I hear, I will never really know how someone else deals with the world around him. Unless The Man With Two Brains ever does become reality. Everyone has obligations in New York, some are bigger or smaller than mine. Some are complete hedonist indulgences. And yet, aren't we hoping all this work is worth it? In order to have the perfect life, we have to do the tedious, mind-numbing leg work. Personally, I couldn't live this way and deal with, say, a roommate, or a girlfriend, or a dog. Maybe it's just my nature, but I find it best to get through days like these completely on my own. I acknowledge that this choice may make me insane on some level.

I also realize something else: save for some choice interactions, or a stray phone call, I have no real purpose to speak either. Therefore, communication becomes a luxury versus a need. This is getting way too intense for me.

But then, you have to stop and think: in a city that thrives on rugged individualism and mass communication, how inter-dependent are we? If we are so self-concerned, does that really make New York that much of "cultural melting pot?" Instead, it seems like everything just turns into white noise. Maybe that's why days like these exist: to remind the world that we're not as complex and self-important as we'd like to think. We're all a little crazy because, of ourselves. That is what will always make us unmistakably human. Luckily, there's always some guy on the other side of the door with an order of Chicken Tikka to save us from the lower depths.