His name is Kitalorium Katastrophy

I am sometimes beset by these feelings of unreality. It is not the sanest thing about me. This can deal with the speed at which time moves. It can be inconsistent, though it usually slows down -- some days taking so long that I have trouble understanding the events of the morning happened only ten hours ago -- which I prefer. My life is finite, and I am in no rush to its inevitable conclusion.

My recent unreality deals with my life with Amber. I remember everything in our life together, but it does not seem that it has taken eight years. I've worked my current job nearly that long. I did not expect to work here for long enough to make moving to Red Hook a reasonable choice. What felt impermanent then is more solid now.

It may be the amassing of days into a pile. You can't quite put your finger on which grain makes it so, but you know a pile when you see one.

If I ever go demented, it may take some work before anyone notices. I tend to accept what is in front of me and work within it. "Oh, it is Tuesday, I am married to a studious vet tech, I teach gang members, and write books no one reads?" Likely, but not necessarily accurate.

There is a facetious philosophical position called Last Tuesdayism (or Wednesdayism or Thursdayism). In brief, it suggests that the entire universe was called into existence last Tuesday with everyone's memories and childhood scars in place. Any evidence that contradicts this was also planted by the gods to assure us of the universe's longevity. Within this constructed universe, we are unable to find evidence that would make this anything other than a wry thought experiment. I accept the world I am in because I have the most evidence it is true, but there is still this chance.

The other day, a librarian merrily greeted me by name when I entered the library. I don't recall having told my name to her and have not had individual contact with this woman that I recollect, but I accepted that I had and couldn't access that information. One doesn't want to be rude because one's reality does not match that of others.

It is not that I do not think my present life is real, though it seems curious. I have money in the bank, a wife of five years, and two cats. How can I have two cats when I am allergic to them? It's suspect, but here we are. I know their names and everything. I know I've taught the fluffy one to stand on her hindlegs to beg for treats, but one of us shouldn't be here. I don't think it is them.

I will get over this. It is likely some quirk of my mental imbalance. I accept that this is my life. I seem happy here. I don't assume some galactic intelligence has me trapped in a simulacrum to pacify me or find out secrets I may know. Now that would be dotty. After all, I do not seem to have secrets worth knowing.

It feels one degree off from wholly believable.

Maybe I am being colorful and don't mean what I am writing. You can't know, because I do tend to be a touch florid, particularly when it comes to my mental health.

On a podcast I listened to, a woman spoke of taking care of her mother, who was dealing with paranoia. The advice she received boiled down to "if she is managing her daily life and responsibilities, let her keep her delusions." I don't recall a time in my recent life when I did not manage my daily life. (A decade ago, I would hide in my apartment and eschew social obligations, but not much since.) When things are so bad that I have blown a fuse, the autopilot keeps my life on an even keel, even if I crumble again when given the opportunity out of direct supervision. One can never see or hear me bawling my eyes out over nothing. There can never be witnesses.

I am changed by tiny things. Presently, I have been moody and irritable because I had the flu shot. My immune system, for whatever reason, decided that healing requires plummeting my serotonin. I know this is not me and I know why it is, but it is no less annoying to be self-aware of why one is being boorish. I take things far too personally and feel minor issues amplifying or created. Everything vexing feels as though it will be eternal. I am not, in short, at my best. How can I fully believe in a reality that a dead virus pricked into my shoulder can warp?

Soon in Xenology: Writing. The End of the World. Soulmates.

last watched: Disenchantment
reading: Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates