I am infected. I'm infected like
grandpa who can't help but to refer to them as “the blacks.” I'm
an Olympic judo master who knows your neck might be broken if you
come at me from behind. I'm a horse that will turn left or right just
by you draping the reigns across my neck. I've an underlying habit, a
notion, and drive always accelerating, and I can't put the energy,
the stress, and the training anywhere meaningful.
I've always considered myself hard to diagnose. Even if I'm in a “depressive state,” which I almost certainly am, just like the most heated anger, just like the quivering sadness, I'm going to pick it apart. I'm going to whitewash the churning inhumanity that wants to turn me inside out. Sure, I have nowhere to go. Sure, I'm as close to an “adult” as I've ever been with my dead-end job, resentful living circumstances, and actual debts with an opened-ended payment schedule. And sure, I wrote a 3 page poem making a case for suicide.
But isn't that right there the point? I think so little about everything around what I'd actually like to be doing. I understand the danger I might cause to someone at the wrong place and time. I'll be as quick or quicker to ridicule and diminish any level of strife I might be experiencing because something something Niger's next. It's that it's very hard to be actively destructive. It takes a lot of energy and time. When everything around you feels destroyed already, now it gets easy. Now you just have to play along.
This only speaking to my ongoing lamentation with life in general. We don't have little boxes made of ticky-tacky anymore. Now we have seas of apartment complexes and The Real World's number of roommates. It'd be dumb to romanticize the suburbs, but there's no denying you live in a different world when you're responsible for your shelter and land. When the onus is on you to feel useful and learn how to take apart the washing machine. When you can decorate with more than a dollar store skeleton on your door for Halloween.
The land represents a sort of last frontier for me. Remember, getting a “regular job” and going into debt and hating my life were a last resort for a reason. There's still a measure of freedom and growth and creativity that can be explored there that never not ever will I get on a delivery run. So, of course, it's getting cold, and my car wants to act up harder and harder, and I obligate myself to poor taxes because everything fucks and gets fucked in compounded ways. Do you know where the real me is? Apparently able to have a smooth and charming completely blacked out conversation with a girl for 45 minutes. He was right in front of me!
I feel lucky when I can latch onto a few quotes. Willie Nelson apparently said, “If you fail long enough at something, you become a legend.” I think that's my goal with writing. Suck so much at getting anywhere or helping anything that some naive cave dwelling humanoid who stumbles across a pile of my droppings can mistakenly call it the find of the century. In this scenario I've made thousands of copies and distributed them through crazed ramblings in the streets spitting through my dangling gray hair.
I use the word naive a lot. That either means I see the same shit too often, or there's a better word lingering. I suppose you can only be naive when you actually believe something and there's an objective means that will summarily shut you down. Then you could reduce any hope or chance anyone ever believes in to a measure of naivety. That might be unfair.
I'm just always waiting. I don't know if it's a psychological hole or what. I'm waiting for what I already had. I'm waiting to start something real again. I'm waiting for a measure of control and security that underpins actual progress. It's like I'm stuck in a fog of incoherent political babble. Bloviating bullshit bolstered by bastard bitches. And I listen and scroll. I take in a book. I watch all the TV. I return to my article reading to discover I actually had already figured it out before. I've nowhere to go and nothing that matters. Just sit, and wait, and try to avoid provoking jeers from the “other” accidental roommate.
I could use some help in figuring out how to blame myself. Recall I spent over a years rent and utilities in the last 3 months trying to get the house livable. I've contacted 25 different contractors or meth-heads with varying and fleeting degrees of success. I can't stop my car from blowing up. I won't really be headed in a good direction if I adopt too high of a car payment and insurance charges. I'll never let myself live it down if I actually manage to have a heart attack or rupture something serious by spending too many hours working. Not like I'd have the health insurance to keep me out of another hole that would dig me in. I make more money than many of my age group's “big boy” jobs with all the extra time to resent my own self in not knowing how to spend it better.
I'm just a mouthpiece at this point. Even my “little” goals like learning different instruments feel impossibly far away. I was supposed to be able to practice any time I wanted out in the middle of nowhere, you see. Now I just chauffeur a few around as I slowly beat my car into submission one drum rudiment at a time. I've been toying with getting a gym membership again. You know that smooth conversation I got into? Well, apparently that girl was down to mess around and I quickly decided she should go with my friend who was on leave and started to walk home. The sex drive is under attack! I haven't lost the charm and smirk and jokes, but...eh, if you ever once thought you had something real, that shit kind of sticks in you. One more worthwhile and fun distraction being slowly led out to pasture.
I've always considered myself hard to diagnose. Even if I'm in a “depressive state,” which I almost certainly am, just like the most heated anger, just like the quivering sadness, I'm going to pick it apart. I'm going to whitewash the churning inhumanity that wants to turn me inside out. Sure, I have nowhere to go. Sure, I'm as close to an “adult” as I've ever been with my dead-end job, resentful living circumstances, and actual debts with an opened-ended payment schedule. And sure, I wrote a 3 page poem making a case for suicide.
But isn't that right there the point? I think so little about everything around what I'd actually like to be doing. I understand the danger I might cause to someone at the wrong place and time. I'll be as quick or quicker to ridicule and diminish any level of strife I might be experiencing because something something Niger's next. It's that it's very hard to be actively destructive. It takes a lot of energy and time. When everything around you feels destroyed already, now it gets easy. Now you just have to play along.
This only speaking to my ongoing lamentation with life in general. We don't have little boxes made of ticky-tacky anymore. Now we have seas of apartment complexes and The Real World's number of roommates. It'd be dumb to romanticize the suburbs, but there's no denying you live in a different world when you're responsible for your shelter and land. When the onus is on you to feel useful and learn how to take apart the washing machine. When you can decorate with more than a dollar store skeleton on your door for Halloween.
The land represents a sort of last frontier for me. Remember, getting a “regular job” and going into debt and hating my life were a last resort for a reason. There's still a measure of freedom and growth and creativity that can be explored there that never not ever will I get on a delivery run. So, of course, it's getting cold, and my car wants to act up harder and harder, and I obligate myself to poor taxes because everything fucks and gets fucked in compounded ways. Do you know where the real me is? Apparently able to have a smooth and charming completely blacked out conversation with a girl for 45 minutes. He was right in front of me!
I feel lucky when I can latch onto a few quotes. Willie Nelson apparently said, “If you fail long enough at something, you become a legend.” I think that's my goal with writing. Suck so much at getting anywhere or helping anything that some naive cave dwelling humanoid who stumbles across a pile of my droppings can mistakenly call it the find of the century. In this scenario I've made thousands of copies and distributed them through crazed ramblings in the streets spitting through my dangling gray hair.
I use the word naive a lot. That either means I see the same shit too often, or there's a better word lingering. I suppose you can only be naive when you actually believe something and there's an objective means that will summarily shut you down. Then you could reduce any hope or chance anyone ever believes in to a measure of naivety. That might be unfair.
I'm just always waiting. I don't know if it's a psychological hole or what. I'm waiting for what I already had. I'm waiting to start something real again. I'm waiting for a measure of control and security that underpins actual progress. It's like I'm stuck in a fog of incoherent political babble. Bloviating bullshit bolstered by bastard bitches. And I listen and scroll. I take in a book. I watch all the TV. I return to my article reading to discover I actually had already figured it out before. I've nowhere to go and nothing that matters. Just sit, and wait, and try to avoid provoking jeers from the “other” accidental roommate.
I could use some help in figuring out how to blame myself. Recall I spent over a years rent and utilities in the last 3 months trying to get the house livable. I've contacted 25 different contractors or meth-heads with varying and fleeting degrees of success. I can't stop my car from blowing up. I won't really be headed in a good direction if I adopt too high of a car payment and insurance charges. I'll never let myself live it down if I actually manage to have a heart attack or rupture something serious by spending too many hours working. Not like I'd have the health insurance to keep me out of another hole that would dig me in. I make more money than many of my age group's “big boy” jobs with all the extra time to resent my own self in not knowing how to spend it better.
I'm just a mouthpiece at this point. Even my “little” goals like learning different instruments feel impossibly far away. I was supposed to be able to practice any time I wanted out in the middle of nowhere, you see. Now I just chauffeur a few around as I slowly beat my car into submission one drum rudiment at a time. I've been toying with getting a gym membership again. You know that smooth conversation I got into? Well, apparently that girl was down to mess around and I quickly decided she should go with my friend who was on leave and started to walk home. The sex drive is under attack! I haven't lost the charm and smirk and jokes, but...eh, if you ever once thought you had something real, that shit kind of sticks in you. One more worthwhile and fun distraction being slowly led out to pasture.
I'm trying to find a way to breakdown
that doesn't negatively affect you. That would be something. Crazy
self-hating people do that cliché thing where they go on the attack.
It doesn't take me getting sad or losing my mind to argue against all
of your Snapchat and Instagram lives. Before it started affecting me
so directly and consistently, I've offered enough of my suspicions
regarding the Giant Lies by which you all conduct yourselves and
charade I play in trying to glean the runoff benefits. The art would
be in making you feel good about it. Not relieved, of course you'd
feel relieved, but good. I don't want to you to feel like I'm a
lifted tax burden, I want you to feel like you had a good
trip.
That's not quick bullet after a drunk night and angry blog. In fact, that's not any method that might've sprung to the front of your mind or perhaps have envisioned for yourself. That would take some sleight of hand and real magic shit. Think of the preparation and coordination. Now, You Don't See Me Too.
That's not quick bullet after a drunk night and angry blog. In fact, that's not any method that might've sprung to the front of your mind or perhaps have envisioned for yourself. That would take some sleight of hand and real magic shit. Think of the preparation and coordination. Now, You Don't See Me Too.
But
enough about my imminent death of my ideals and motivations which is
considerably worse than the loss of whatever embodied phantom I might
resemble in the halls of your mind. It just happens when the rest you
want has nothing to do with sleep. Like, I'll sleep better when the
lies aren't winning. I'll want to get back up when I can meet a day
that's going to give back what I put into it. I want to feel myself
believing in things again, not the bare minimum survival of helpless
kicking in the air. I really really miss me. I miss seeing the future
I wasn't going to be dragged into. I miss feeling like an advocate
with clear and present examples to refute your pessimism and
negativity charges. I'm just an old guy with random pain flares,
dwindling friendships, and compounded obligations. If the situation
regarding cooperation was dire back when I first mentioned it, I've
well tumbled over that cliff and am hoping not to break every finger
trying to cling to the wall on my way down.
