fuck all – perkaraperkara

the case of emotional intelligence

Because it was Saturday morning and I am entirely bored, I decided to do this really long EQ test. Which took me about 20 minutes. And I thought I would do OK. But the opposite seems to be the case. Which is shite.

Self-report Component
Subscale IQ score = 66
Subscale percentile = 1

According to your self-report answers, your emotional intelligence is very poor. People who score like you do feel that they have trouble dealing with their own emotions and those of others. They struggle to overcome difficulties in their lives and they are unable to control their moods. It’s hard for them to understand how best to motivate themselves and reach their goals. In addition, they find social interactions quite difficult, for several reasons. They may have trouble allowing themselves to get close with others, finding it difficult to be vulnerable enough to establish intimacy. They also report having trouble offering support to others, likely due to the fact that they do not understand where others are coming from or they lack ideas about how best to help. Perhaps by working on your problem areas, you can become more confident in dealing with your own emotions and those of others.

This does bother me, a lot. With the percentile of only 1%, I am WAY below average. Perhaps retarded. I am socially retarded. Great. This dictates that I am a sore loser, that I lack self-confidence and those shit.

Talk about these personality tests, I did one way back in February when entering this stupid college of mine. It was done by this group of researches from UiTM or UKM, and guess what, I scored 5% on Jati Diri, 13% on Emotional Stability. Which is bad, considering that I occcupy extreme poles of everything. This is bad, because when I looked at the result of this extremely collosal guy, an absolutely cheesy, but Foreman-ish typa guy, um.. perhaps those soldier-ish ones, he scored 100% on Jati Diri. It’s fucking annoying, if you ask me.

Know what Jati Diri means? I don’t know either. Goodwill? Care to explain?

You know what, I do have problems conveying emotions, because it seemed to me most revealing, and unnecessary, that if I suddenly started to go excited in a class, or give a present to anyone, I’d immediately regret and curse myself for years to come. Esh.

Naw, I’m not gonna touch on IQ. Because I know I’m gonna be sucha show off and boastful. What I am mainly concerned about is the importance of such a thing called Emotional Intelligence. I know it is needed in order to have such a happy, perfect life, where everyone is nice to each other. I know that in order to live and be successful, you’d have to cope and deal with people, be decent and carve a smile or two, and have sleek shiny combed hair and all those shit. Talk about the ups and downs of your life and all. Go see a counselor for your career choice. Have a guy to date with and dance around. Dress up and iron your clothes and go early so you don’t piss off anyone. Give a nice good advice if someone is feeling shit or tell them to be patient and pray to god if their brother’s struggling for life. Give a most ordinary/cliched response so as not to hurt anyone’s feeling when they’re talking about Korean dramas. Simply put, interact harmoniously.

Problem is, I simply refuse. I reject all kind of things that ain’t accordance to what I really feel, unless I am feeling absolutely gay and need a break from reality.

there ain’t privacy no more

I can’t think. Or maybe I think too much. It’s a stream of incessant thinking that is slowly driving me to the depths of depression. Here, right now, time feels like an eternity. Or timeless. A complete fountain of paradoxes, that you know not the difference between the two, because two extreme poles they seem to converge at one point.

Call it madness. Call it whatever the fuck you want. I know when I’m being extremely touchy that I loathe every single fucking encounter with any human being that I crave that moment where I can finally disappear, away from everyone else, at least from everyone I know. I can anticipate when these bouts of extreme existentialism comes. I don’t know what that means anymore. I don’t wanna know. It sounds good though, right now.

Maybe I need a quick fix, maybe I aught to go and really admit that I am that sad and morose and all that negativity, instead of just blaming it on the lack of enthusiasm/response I give due to boredom of everything else. Maybe they’ll do me wonders, maybe they really patch things up, maybe they’ll give you a sense of well being, even for a minute or two.

Every single fucking day you feel as if you’re sucked into this world not your own, being forced doing things you do not want to submit to in the first, yet you tell to yourself; yes I can still stand all of this shite, when you know you’re gonna break down sooner or later. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, maybe not in this fucking year, maybe… I don’t know. You sit down and say, I am I am I am.

It fucked up, I tell ya, when you show up at people’s door without any apparent reason, not knowing what to do, or say, or react. It’s not as if you need ’em, it’s not that they’d ever understand you, even if they proclaim they read you like a fucking book, because humans never really understand other humans. They just assume they do, and they understand people in their own understanding, making wild assumptions and jumping to erroneous conclusions it’s fucking hilarious.

You want to be away from other people, to get away from a place, yet you know you fucking can’t because you can’t gather enough will to get out of ye own bed, so you’re stuck in that one place, until somebody creeps in, and fucking talks to you like you’re a goddam piece of delicate vegetable that needs saving. Well I don’t need saving. Not from people like you, anyway.

You ask me to define people like you, because you are grossly offended, or perhaps a wee bit curious of how my mind works. You’d want my bit of gems, preaching me, obsessing over me, like I’m some fucking goddess when I’m really this fucked up piece of shit. Ye ask if I believed in the almighty, if I had anyone I love, if I still remember whatever I say to you, ye keep asking me like I’m some fucking answering machine.

Oh fine I’ll tell you then, when I feel all too amused by a situation as such. People like you, are just mostly everybody else. I could elaborate for hours on that but sorry, mate, I’ m just not inta it anymore. Or more accurately, I’m just not into you, or what you’re trying to do. I’m just bothered by your presence, like a fly in the market, like a flea in the marketplace, just like what dear old Nietzsche (but you call him knee-shaw) described in his book.

Alas, you call me delusional, telling me that I live in my own world, , conjuring up false tales about you and other people, that I am delirious and henceforth declare me unhealthy. If so then stop bothering me, I don’t need you nor your nasty diagnosis, your declaration of love, your words of comfort, your preachy voice, and whatever else you want to present. All I can say is fuck off and be rid of my sight.

Just leave me alone, because I am better off that way.

And you may start to wonder, what the heck happened to me.