Endings

 I don't like endings, there was a reason why but I forgot. I've never personally experienced an ending (most things seem to simply peter out) so maybe I just don't know what to make of them. Especially in books. Maybe I just don't know how to read. There's never an epiphany waiting on that last page (not in Good Books anyway), no revelation to be gleaned. This is all because I finished My Year of Rest and Relaxation and it said something (which I've already forgotten, but maybe I made a note on my Kindle) that reminded me of The Goldfinch and that passage at the end of it where he Realizes things about the Nature of the World, none of which I can remember. (Someone tweeted they couldn't remember a single detail of any New Yorker piece they'd read over the years. Neither can I. Should stop watching TV or listening to podcasts for background noise.)

Anyway, I've been dreaming about death again. I thought about giving myself ultimata - either the end of this year, or maybe the next when I turn 25, or maybe when I turn 30 - if things don't get better I'll detonate the vest. Haven't given much attention to how things would get better or what my role in that would be, but the question of what would be the most effective political statement is interesting. The problem is I want to be honest. I have rarely, if ever, taken responsibility for the course of my life, and I'm probably not going to start now, not with my weight, not with my looks, not with my career prospects. Obviously admitting this would distract from any broader point I'd be making.

I'm getting braver in my dreams too. I think of guns and bombs. Maybe because I've realised I'm stupid and resentful of my expensive education that brought me nowhere (other than to Moscow, where I got bulimia and began my slow mental health decline - I really do have to laugh), but also not ambitious or driven enough to do anything about it, so this seems like a low effort way of raising the stakes and not having to deal with the consequences.