Memoirs of Love, Sex, and Other Things that I'm not good at

Introduction

Hi there..diary? I don't know why I'm doing this but my therapist said it would help.

I should probably introduce myself to these ... I don't know, letters?
Man. Walt, this is a diary that is going to be read by someone, this is defeating the point of a diary doesn't it?

Oh well fuck it I guess, I'll do what you've asked;

My name's Vincent Birger , but I go by many nicknames;
Piece of shit, lowlife, unwelcome in this family anymore
And
my pub nickname - Vinny the vineyard!

Ironic, since the avertly sweet taste of wine makes me wince, but one doesn't pick their own nicknames, especially puns that take a jab at them being an alcoholic.

( Doc's probably rolling his eyes reading this, but I might as well make it funny if it's supposed to be read by you, you're getting old you need entertainment )

Yes, I'm an alcoholic. ( You can now clap Walt, I have admitted to having a problem) Can't fight genetics. Or people that had reduced me to this state, even though my hands do itch...
(For more booze)
( I can't fight people who are long cold and dead... Yet.)

I'm 24 years old
Uni student.

Shameful really, to be an actual scholar and write such nonsense, silly diary entries. At least my past works predate my journey of trying to acquire the title, being merely 16 at the time of writing most of the garbage I used to dish out in those tiny sketchbookish things, you know what I'm talking about. Had a sketchbook filled to the brim with some stupid prosaic notes and inspirational quotes, guess what Doc, they didn't help back then either.

Alas, I still continue to dish it out now, in one form or another. Still garbage.

At least this is a piece of garbage that will have some personal value. Something I can show my therapist.

So, if you're reading it, Walter, my apologies for the shit you're about to witness with your very own eyes, but not really, I pay you for this after all.

For today, all I can say is I still hate my job!

My father always detested his job too, having an unfortunate experiences in this industry, he actively discouraged me from pursuing it.
But I was always a rather handy kid; I liked building things, had a knack for details.
I remember he used to have this huge clock that I stared at for days as a small child, it was quite a sight, skeleton build. Maybe that's when I decided to pursue this career, building intricate things that had a function, but who knows.

The last job did feel oddly fulfilling for the many months that I got to experience it. Not to stroke my own dick too much, but I was damn good at it, unlike this one.

Then of course, education came into the picture, and I found myself struggling to manage working two jobs, as well as getting ready for the exams.

It was overly ambitious of me either way. Another genius idea of my very Easter european half of family's exerting pressure onto me to be the textbook parental bragging right.

You know the type...  The oh, so dreaded -"Your cousin is younger than you, he's 15, he's been practicing piano for 20 years! And worked a job for 30, and you? Look at yourself!"

Despite grinding my earlier years away to satisfy my parents expectations, I was never exactly 'good enough' for them. So, of course, I found myself at the shitty end of the "X's son is younger and better than you" stick almost always.

- ( Yes Walter, I know what you're thinking, it shows. Stop looking at me like that with your silly litte stare of 'i told you so')

Unless, of course, I myself wasn't around to hear my father use my name as the bragging point to jab into other petty ears of equally overbearing parents.

Guess he thought it was bad parenting, giving me any sort of affirmation that what I was doing wasn't a complete waste of my efforts and time.

So with time I had no fucks left to give.

The trophies, certificates, and other bullshit I was routinely getting in bunches to prove myself to my parents simply didn't matter to me anymore.

Those were the very first roots of dropping the Catholic school boy moral compass that was beaten into my psyche for many years, and slipping into more Dionysus-praise-worthy behaviours... And by that I mean completely anti Christian stuff. Things got out of control more than I've imagined.

But there's far more to me than I've mentioned here, of course
Far far more than I can ever think of on the spot. But for now, since it is of no relevance, it will remain burried in the future chapters.

You told me to include something for the sexual health and post traumatic something, something, blah blah blah,  considering what happened on that day so here's a summary of things before all that.

My sexual orientation went to fuck itself only a few months ago, but I considered myself to be straight and purely attracted to women all my life. 

I have no idea what happened in the deal of december 2022, the whole thing still gives me flashbacks. The night terrors have gotten worse.

And this goofy diary is mostly going to be about that, how it all happened.
Maybe...

It's funny how a person can come into your life, make things feel so beautiful, then walk away for little to no fault of your own and ruin everything.
Now Walter I can hear ya ask, what do you mean 'no fault of yer own?', and honestly, I agree. But that was the first puppy-love and you know exactly that those people don't exactly contribute much to what happened other than the origins of how things started.

Some people you shouldn't have let into your life to begin with, no matter how much they cry and threaten you with suicide if you don't take them back. They leave you used, with a shadow of yourself to cling to, and someday a very empty wallet.
I gotta admit that somewhere along the way I lost myself in them so much...
I'm still not sure of who I am but-

"But that's not what this was about was it?" You say in my minds eye, fixing your glasses, and I can almost hear ya in that damn scouser accent of yours.

And once again you are fucking right, Walter, and I hate it when you're right.

So gimmie a little space to explain will ya?
Ogres have layers, and so do the men with attachment issues who had gotten themselves somehow involved in a cult.