What's he on about now?

In case the articles, essays and opinions throughtout this site just weren't enough for you, here's my online diary (a.k.a. 'blog'). It's as close as you'll come to the inside of my head, so don't say I didn't warn you
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   Sunday, October 12, 2003

THE BANALITY OF EVIL

It seems that, despite the best of intentions and a solid Catholic upbringing, I've launched myself on the path to true evil. When future historians look back trying to discover the moment Scott Went Wrong, tell 'em it was Dido's fault. Yes, Dido, that pretty English singer from the Eminem video. Her new album, "Life for Rent," is as charming as the first and the title track is one of those perfect little pop songs that totally captures how I'm feeling these days. Check out her website for the song, and here's the lyrics that grabbed me:

I haven't really ever found a place that I call home
I never stick around quite long enough to make it
I apologize that once again I'm not in love
But it's not as if I mind that your heart ain't exactly breaking

It's just a thought, only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine

I've always thought that I would love to live by the sea
To travel the world alone and live more simply
I have no idea what's happened to that dream
Cos there's really nothing left here to stop me

It's just a thought, only a thought

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine

While my heart is a shield and I won't let it down
While I am so afraid to fail so I won't even try
Well how can I say I'm alive

But if my life is for rent and I don't learn to buy
Well I deserve nothing more than I get
Cos nothing I have is truly mine

Nothing too profound there but, as I said, it neatly captured my mood since the summer, as I continue the seemingly endless struggle to make things better for myself. As I said to Stan at the store earlier today, I'm just looking for a place that I can grow in. The record store doesn't seem to be it, sadly, though it's been the closest thing so far. All I do know is that I've got to start answering that question that scares me silly: what do I want?

People ask me that and I start stammering like an idiot because I just won't allow myself to sit down and lay claim to my own desire -- and how sad a life is that? It's as though I'm playing some kind of zero-sum game in which a victory for me means pain for someone else and I can't bear the discomfort of that. This month, however, I decided to start changing that by losing that zero-sum game and ruining another man's life.

OK, that's more than melodramatic but, after tolerating an increasingly irritating roommate all year (culminating in that June 9th rant that spawned 88 Lines About 4.4 Roommates), I'd decided to move out and get my own place. I want it, I need it, I deserve it. Only trouble is, Jerry's not a member of the co-op -- merely my "long-term guest" -- so if I go, he goes. That rule had me stalling for months, possibly forever, until the new ruthless me decided, "fuck it, I can't go on like this." Magically, a couple of decent apartment offers suddenly came my way and I felt like everything might work out for me.

Fair enough, you say, but where's the evil? Well, it started this week, when Jerry finally got around to giving me his half of the rent on October 7. Four days earlier, I'd said in a mild tone, "Hey, I got the nasty letter from the co-op again," and Jerry just shrugged at me. Yes, the camel's back was piled with straw by now. I finally broke this morning when, as I debated how to break the news to Jerry that he'll have to move out in six weeks, he announced that -- just like last fall -- he's been fired from his job. I listened to his endless explanation of how his "hypocrite" boss tried to soften the blow, how hard Jerry's worked, how minor the reasons for the firing were, and how ungrateful they all are for Jerry's efforts. I felt myself sinking deeper into the sofa as I realized just how little I cared about any of this.

I'm tired. I'm tired of the drama. I'm tired of feeling like an intrusion in my own home. I'm tired of feeling that Jerry is an intrustion in my own home. I'm tired of nagging him for the rent and I'm tired of the fear that he'll suddenly stop paying it. After three dreary roommates in a row -- each one chosen from a series of interviews with people much worse -- I've finally realized that I must live alone, no matter how much money I have to spend or how empty the place may occasionally feel. I'm not so uncomfortable with solitude that I'm willing to endure all this for it.

But the taint of evil frightens me a little. For all my self-actualizing babble, what I'm essentially doing is kicking a man when he's down, turning him out onto the street when he's at his lowest point. Is that not horrible? Am I not horrible? It's frustrating because, despite all this, I just can't bring myself to care any more.

It's that damn Dido song. It's helped stir up mud that I'd kept settled at the bottom of my mental lake. I want a home. Not necessarily a house or a condo or anything I can't yet afford to buy but, at the very least, a place to rent that I can make my own -- paint the walls a warm colour, throw some dinner parties, play jazz CDs good and loud, and just plain relax without the worries of dealing with someone else's needs. I don't think I've ever had that. As I said to a friend this evening, even if I end up working so much to pay for it that I'm only home for three hours a week, I want those three hours to be MINE. It's all so very small, so very ordinary and -- as I force a poor man out of his home -- so very evil.