I deal with fictional stress by whining to myself, writing pointless self-destructive, pretentious purple prose, contemplating suicide, and other melodramatic crap. Fictional stress is how I now categorize supposed existential crisis, quarter-life confusion, career misdirections, scratched action figures, and other things I mostly complain about. On the other hand, I deal with genuine stress by denying it exists, totally blocking it from my head, and when I can no longer contain it, by sleeping. One of my first year college professors said that sleeping problems off is not a good way to deal, because then you’d just sleep your whole life. Which is actually not a bad idea. I want to wake up really old, in the retiring age, preferably in an isolated island. With TV and books.
May 2007
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