[832] Pooled

I hate getting sick. It's something that's both inevitable, and for me, seemingly intolerable. It's one thing to feel weak or helpless, and another to be thrust into a pool that drowns you in thoughts and feelings about how weak and helpless you are. It's realizing how little certain thoughts matter to me or how willing I am to start negotiating the terms of my surrender. Something like a sore throat is the nagging cat scratching at every swallow, erasing the pleasure of taste. A head pounding says sit, stand, or lay down, it's no matter it will pull on the muscles around your brain and eyes until you can't see or think.

In truth, it's hard for me to piece together what to make of my “thoughts” when I'm severely ill. It's one long dream-like state of delirious pain, reacting to the chills or sweating per my body aches and heaves. I really wanted help. At bottom, just someone to like bear witness that I wasn't over or under reacting to what was happening. You don't really know how bad you have it, and sometimes until it's too late to do anything. Every scowl and laughable question about, “Who dies from the flu?” becomes less funny. Not that I have more evidence than not to suggest I was about to die, but the question rings louder the more isolated and without the necessary resources you are.

Sickness is memorable for me. I was thinking about what makes something memorable, and the severity of the change in my disposition certainly counts. I know the “differentness” of not eating for several days at a time. I know how foreign it feels to not be able to put two thoughts together for longer than snapshots of time. I know how empty and hopeless and desperate I am to just black out until it's all over. The physical nature of it sucks enough, but the mental is what elevates it to the next level. Who am I when nothing matters but the writhing and rocking of my legs or emptying my body of every last drop of bile? Where do you want to go but down when you can't see or hold yourself up straight?

And then how do we bother to understand or share sickness? In truth, I don't get sick often beyond annoying colds or tension headaches. The big ones stand out for their ability to completely incapacitate save a fledgling ability to drag myself to the bathroom. Our first instinct is to offer “help” and also simultaneously be a little suspicious, no? How sick is sick? Too sick to work? How do you have to sell and explain yourself so you're not punished on top of being sick for not living up to your responsibilities? How desperate and persuasive do you have to be to be accepted back into the ranks after being such a burden to your cohort or family? I think this is a fairly unique American instinct.

In any event, even while I consider myself on a path to be able to squirrel away the resources to be able to account for my inevitable sickness, universal healthcare or not, there's still all the time in between. There's still the injuries I'm begging for and car accidents don't stop just because you had one recently. The same afternoon I got a hole dug for a pool, I went from perfectly healthy, to exploding in a few hours. Which aspect of my day will feel the most memorable? The excitement at the prospect of a future swim spot, or the drama and pain? I think they'll be about equal. I think they'll be equal because of the irony underlying how life works. You have to work and affirm and overcome to match the default pain and suffering that comes with existing at all. That's what makes it bearable and makes you want to keep living when you've lost all direction and hope.

When I started to feel like my shit was coming back together, figuratively and literally, I wanted to get the laundry done, get my car dropped off to be worked on, and compile the medicine I'd hopefully have on hand in case the next disaster strikes. Whatever hell you're experiencing doesn't have to be the end of the story or definitive in any way beyond how it's made you better prepared or appreciative of the health or security you're currently enjoying. For as often as life seems it's trying to humble me lately, I keep insisting I couldn't really be sitting any prettier than if I were able to layabout and arbitrarily invest unlimited time and money.

I guess there's also the sense that say I did randomly die, it would have been on the day I moved forward with another thing I said I wanted to do, have a pool, and I'll be dammed if there isn't a gaping hole in the ground not 30 feet from me. I need shows of good faith from myself as much or moreso than I do from others. You can't say I'm not trying, even if it looks less prepared or pretty than you imagine the process should take. If all I know how to do is move in the world one expenditure at a time (given the frivolity of the hearts and minds approach), well, feel free to stop in and stare at the latest attraction.

I still don't feel 100%. I don't feel “bad,” but I feel like modest effort beyond basic ambling from one place to the next is going to provoke the kind of huffing carrying my laundry yesterday did. My mouth hasn't returned to normal; it's got that dry opaque “medicine feel” like it's been hollowed out and numb waiting for permission to be a thing my brain can ignore until it's been bitten. My day is flirting with feeling like a “waste,” which again testifies to how suspiciously I/we might think about recuperating and rest. I'm hoping any remote insight or subconscious shift that might've taken place manifests over the next few weeks. It was literally impossible to string together thoughts that weren't basic survival/cleanliness instincts, but I distinctly remember how little a shit I gave about topics that did pass through, if not what those topics were explicitly.

[831] Muddy Buddy

I haven't written in a bit. I suspect it's because things have been going basically well. The break from work and time spent with my girl certainly aren't things to bitch about. The general propensity I maintain that forgets sources of income and assumes more in losses than feels necessary in the moment has me believing I'll be entering a high-intensity fugue state in a few short weeks as I compile tools and resources. I'm beginning to feel “powerful” again. When things happen to me, they feel manageable. When I'm in an uncomfortable setting, I can play along. When I've campaigned a little too hard for the positivity, we can stand back in awe that I actually bothered to campaign and my instinct wasn't to relay ironic mockery for the modest defeat.

I've said a few times that I believe I'll be insufferable when I actually get going. When I can realize the change I want to see, have it paid for if not completed, secured the spot, learned the next step, or otherwise seem to have discovered a way to enable the pieces to move, that's all I want to do. I want to do it because I still suspect life doesn't give a shit about what I want to do and will try to cause my car to break down in an expensive way before I get it paid for. I think life will try to make sure some unforeseen responsibility is foisted upon my shoulders when it sees I have nothing else to assert in its smirking face. I think striking quickly is often as important as striking wisely when the ongoing task is more fundamental than the infinite variable details that will need smoothed out regardless.

I'm a little concerned about returning to that level of intensity and expectation. Seriously, what happens when I've literally paid my bills in advance, for years, and every red cent I can use to get in trouble? I've never had that. How much more impatient am I going to get with the bullshit at work if I've already budgeted buying and building another spot in California? What happens if I use my refund check and can manage to get enough solar power and batteries to get off-grid, reducing my obligations even further? [1/25/20 idiot] I've had all the time in the world, in a sense, in the past. I'm confident I can occupy it, but what am I going to make of a disposition shift and that isn't “practically sitting pretty” so I can pay the bills or get out of debt?

Something on my truck broke and is now protruding through the bed. I bought 800 pounds of soil to aide in driving when the snowstorm hit. It helped. Apparently driving around with that much weight just generally has contributed to an issue that I'm sure won't be as cheap to repair as I'd like it to be. It's a great example of life not giving a shit and the infinite things you'll overlook while puffing what little chest you can. It's indicative of why we need societies and backups and reliable people and tools to insure against that infinite see of destruction. It's goading the piece of my life puzzle I'm most excited about addressing. It's being the change I wish to see in the world.

That thought has contributed to the feeling powerful. You can't change people, but you can condition them. You can shame them. You can make them fit a comfortable place for you, if not for them. I don't need help from people who can't or won't. I won't share enough articles, argue brilliantly, or vote my way through humanity's innate fascism. I have to design and live like I know what you are, accept where you are, and render you as a cog in my machine, or helpless in the face of my growing edifice. There is no “winning,” so to speak, my game, but for life manifesting in the ways only I am capable of designing and observing a certain way. That's the importance of preserving your individual voice and reinforcing whatever it is you have to say. People who burn candles alone in the street for peace don't want to the world to change them, they don't believe the candle stops bullets.

The work of affirmation is complicated. Like most things, it can look like anything else. “Jews will not replace us!” What? Insane insecure ramblings of idiots certainly looking like they're asserting something. The powerful truth of what you really believe in is what takes hold. Scapegoating, bullying, and fear-mongering are their gods, not their scrupulous invectives and poignant chants. To the degree you answer with what you actually believe and understand about the real consequences determines who wins. It determines who wins forever, every day. I flick off the Trump flag house on my way to work every morning because fuck that.

I guess I'm curious about when or whether you feel powerful. It came up again that someone in my life pointed out that my affirmation and explanation of my plans and the ways in which I think I can cultivate society sounded condescending. I often need to work on my verbal delivery, but I tried to reassure that I don't really go to that excited explanatory place with people I don't feel like I'm conspiring with. If you're still reading me or waiting for things to exponentiate, I hope you never feel like I'm talking down to you. I'm often talking from a place of desperate loneliness and needling anxiety about the time it's taken to inch forward. It's frustrating how many people “get it,” and how many ways it becomes or feels impossible to live like we do. I consider you co-conspirators, knights of the round, or ladies-in-waiting poised to slash the throats of their particular oppressors and their pageantry.

It's a small club, and I don't make the rules for how you're going to react. Maybe that's what I'm worried about. I can be all crazy me in my own way and own time, but what happens when I make the call and it's silent on the other end of the line? Back to forlorn consideration of cold-calling and door knocking? Stewing with my toys? Coming back to these lines, commas in the bank, a world of creation outside my door, and a laundry list of those I've alienated and moved-on from? I have to consider it at least. I think I got at least one or two that'll stick it out.

[830] Prō-vidē-re

I'm super sleepy and full. I've had nothing but a series of scattered lines and thoughts I considered for blog titles flitting about my head. I'm not sure how I'm oriented lately, and I think I need a meandering meditation.

Sometimes I get the weirdest songs stuck in my head. I don't know what they're associated with. I couldn't just start singing them unless they were already playing up there and I happened to notice. It'll be the chorus to some 90s pop song that I'd never hear but for the themed bar night I might attend. Worse than that will be commercial jingles or show intros of things I've barely or never watched. It seems explicitly random.

“Random” is something I think a lot about. I find the more untenable the notion of random becomes, you're willing to swallow increasing piles of bullshit in order to piece together a story. I could tell you explicitly, a dozen times, that each line in this blog will be the random array of noises clunking around in my head, and if you found a common theme by the end, you'd rather consider me “deep” or “insightful” than both of us almost perfectly arbitrary.

I watched a pseudo-science “documentary” that talked about the connectedness of all things. “Quantum” is thrown around a lot, as well as a special dignity to the emptiness we're all mostly made of. I'm finally experienced enough in my media watching that I can see the dozen signals in something that's bullshit before I get to the end. (I still apparently fall for IT test scams at work though). The lone scientist who claims to have unified physics who can't get a single colleague to appear in his film is a solid indication. Using the words “sacred geometry” anywhere will tell you too.

I've certainly contemplated the degree of my feeling connected or not and its impact on my behavior. Basically, I don't feel it. I know intellectually I am connected, but that connection is shaped by the “honest” ways in which we can connect our shared experiences. This is the whole complicated mess of the appropriate use of language and degree or capacity in which one can or should bother to infer anything for which they can't conceive in themselves. I want to believe my starkness or frankness is the right kind of “powerful honesty” that lends itself to the world getting better organized, but I don't feel it reciprocated. I don't experience the gain in any form but the story I tell myself and occasional “I appreciate that” sentiment from someone who's probably lying. I can put my house together, mental or physical, slowly, one brick at a time, functionally alone. (Shout out to my followers!)

I've been to the gym a fair amount recently. The majority of each week in fact. I'm the good kind of sore. For as on-again off-again I've been about the gym, I'm not entirely sure why I'm bothering now. Maybe I just have a super in-shape girlfriend I don't want to be too fat for? Maybe I'm subconsciously thinking it'll only be for the 3 months I've signed away to history where, at the end I'll be out of debt and beginning my adventures in hood-rich status? I like pretending that every day, no matter how light the workout, I've lost weight or trimmed an area or two. I like not huffing and puffing and the mental clarity to juggle the different obligations I have to different families. I dislike the smell and general state of the gym locker room.

I was told I didn't have the minimum experience required for the job I applied for. I knew that going in. On paper, I'm a vagabond. In life, I've managed more people and disparate variables than the jackabouts who've climbed the corporate ladder for 25 years mostly with the strategy of explicitly not managing people. I didn't want the job. I want the license or requisite power to be of meaningful consequence in a medium chosen for its utility more than any ideal.

It's the next night and I've picked this back up.

It's suitable that I should carry on and get distracted while revising a line about not connecting only to be met with a facebook conversation yesterday. Today was very flowy. I had achievable goals, just hard enough, that occupied a lot of time, and it's 10:09, I'm home, tucked into my chair, and looking forward to playing with my new toys.

This “vibe” for the last two weeks has been a sort of “full void” so described in Waking Life. I swallowed the idea that I'd be “freer” in two months, and each day has kind of connected in a way that's made sense. I haven't even considered grinding my teeth, I'm allowing for the plethora of small disappointments I have with people brush off like they're only as good as those examples, and I'm stoking the kind of flame that had me burning to do everything every day with the due focus and enthusiasm. It's still going to take some doing, but I felt at home several times today. Out in the cold picking apart a scrap wood pile, getting in a few episodes of One Piece while doing the laundry, and even now, doing what I primarily do at home in sitting and staring at the screens, feels more complete.

Money is a huge component. I feel free when I can chase my energy and ideas, and if I can't sink that $300 into the right tools, I feed on myself. Knowing that functionally, 3.1 or 4.2 checks are going to register the same to my disposition but for how the intervening time is being occupied has me feeling less “hunker down and wait for crisis” and more “gotta google how to...because I'm starting tomorrow.” It's hard to really stress the importance of being able to smooth over your existence with money. I haven't met a single family with their dozen relatives all itching to call the DCS hotline on them I'd rather trade places with when they're poor and miserable.

I like looking down on people. I was asked why I make a point of speaking to when people guess that I'm in my 20s. I like to believe it's an extension of how I approach life (both my parents were routinely told they looked a lot younger than their ages, so, you know everything in this paragraph will be bullshit.) But, my “stress” is a different thing than for most people. I'm not worried my kids are going to die, or have the same weight of bills. I try my best to forget “my families” as quick as I enter their lives. I like to think that people envy my general disposition, begrudging gym body, or the life I've tried to set up for myself after picking “easy” paths in that they were already laid out. I also don't think anyone gives a shit about my life lol.

I've watched chunks of the documentary Shoah at the gym over the last couple weeks. The pain or annoying parts of going to the gym don't really register when you're paying attention to the details offered regarding “the final solution.” Yeah, the shower seems a touch dirty...incoming imagery of bodies piled and falling through gas chamber doors! Life is as much that casual horror as it is the motivated self-serving story of your place relative to all others. Feeling little enough to keep on carrying on is different from feeling so small that you must destroy everything around you.

Arguably, that's what I see. People tearing each other down, not because they just have fun with it and it's part of what I consider my broad and unyielding parody on life, but because they're helpless. They're looking for the excuse to make a mess. I recognize in myself when that gets triggered, perhaps after a giant loss of respect for something, but I don't operate on that level at bottom or perpetually. What people who don't have the naked problem of generalized poverty and unalleviated trauma are slow to realize is how often they share the language of excuses and passing of responsibility. Like, fascism is winning, and not because it's the majority opinion, just the majority dishonest disposition.

That begs another exploration of “truth.” I'm still bothered by the idea of “personal truth.” What's personally true for me is the smallest selfish conception of how I keep the worst things about me at bay. It's not a guide to enlightenment or something worth being proud of. I find the regular world operates explicitly on personal truths. That's how you can offer invitations to people you don't want to show up. That's how you can pray instead of buckle down. That's how you can have the same water-cooler conversations every day. That's how the fiction of your ability to care or lead manifests as the language of other superficial actors and you advance in the game of basic bitch business as usual.

“From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded”

Bullshit. At least, in the regular world it's bullshit. The regular world is about placating over those demands. If I demanded you live more sustainably, more humbly, and with an eye on a prize that pushed your knowledge and or ability to tolerate, after you move past confusion or laughter, you'd leave me alone to trod down your own path. We're in our 30s. We've been given the keys to the castle, and so far the demands are proving too much and we're watching it burn. We were given degrees, friendships, families with solid amounts of money, and we speak to each other occasionally in text or through likes. We bury ourselves in personal gratification. My game has basically degraded to a kind of pissing match to bury myself further and faster than you, and probably speaks to why it's taken me so long to find a path resembling the worthwhile expenditure of that much energy or belief in anything. I can barely remember the last time I met someone with a vocalized goal they actually then began to pursue.

I like to think I recognize that I've been given the world. I'm cush as fuck. I'm pretentious in ways pretty people can't fathom. I look for messes to introduce myself into, and casually approach taking things over because I literally cannot find people who, in their own fucking worlds, want the responsibility of speaking up or being blamed. In what universe am I applying to head a local office State agency? Your pathetic one.

I have been wondering what's underneath and why I wanted to stroll through. I found the anger. There's always an exasperated navel-gazing screamer in my chest who remains ironically clueless the tragedy he's watched played out in a familiar way. “Why don't they just do better!? Why don't they try!?” Maybe that's why I've managed to find my gym vibe and extra energy. Maybe I've finally been able to put that nascent regard for people as people back into the black box I'd rather beat them to death with, and it behooves me to again stop pretending there's any room for me and my manner with regard to them. Yes, they're too fat and lazy, stop inviting them and you'll stop empathizing and acting like them. Yes, they're too stupid or busy, get an insane jump on a dozen projects, and be confident in your ability to navigate them alone, not dejected like them who said “if only,” were given it, and then receded. Yes, people are trash, and the name of a sustainable life is recycling, not singing along with Oscar.

[829] Crazy-Z-Bich

If I'm going to remain stuck in the moment, I might as well write about it. Let's start easy.

There's different kinds of liars. I tell people often that mostly, my job is to get lied to. It sounds weird, but it's true. My job is not to “ensure safety” for children. My job is to ask questions, get lied to, and then see how often I can prove those lies and combine them with fancy inflammatory words to get you caught up in the State.

Today I was lied to by a most insidious type. There's the general pieces of shit who fluidly flow from one nonsense lie to another, often in the same breath, and you can't shut them up. They're like a waterfall of bullshit, and everyone involved, unless you're their case manager, learns to let it wash over them as streams of bullshit will. The type that lied to me is what I consider a cancerous cousin of this type. The stream of consciousness bullshitter is warped in a pitiful manner. The cancerous cousin is malicious.

This kind of liar wants to see you dance. “I CAN'T MEET! MY SCHEDULE IS SOOOOO BUSY!” Always exasperated and insistent. This liar will tell you they couldn't be bothered to answer you for over a week, send you a text before the ghosting suggesting good will for the holiday, and then throw their own cancellation of plans in your face. This person will knowingly tell you “yes,” anticipating the next minute’s “no” to the same question, after you've pulled out the form, and after they've reiterated their “very serious” concern about signing anything.

This person feels like they need to attack, but they're broken, so the attack is broken. They won't lash out, because they don't really believe in anything. They have to act dumber than they are, put up walls not because they feel defensive, but because they're angry the world might ever direct its attention at them for any reason, let alone the genuinely concerning ones. I realized as I was getting heated twice with this kind of person, there's something special about how fucked they are and what it speaks to in me.

I try incredibly hard to keep it together. I'm a short fuse when you hit the right buttons. It's literally a categorized character type and nothing special, but it's something to be aware of. Not much will set me off, like it takes straight up violence most often, and even then it's a toss up. More often than I'd like, I'll flare up when it comes to how we're approaching the “truth.” I get lied to all day every day, why was her approach so unsettling? Different quasi-parallel circumstance that comes to mind: why did I get snappy at my girl when she kind of dismissively was writing off something I was saying about myself and perspective?

I want to be recognized for how much it's taken to get to be who I am. I want to be seen for all of the words and effort and pulling-it-together after the teeth grinding and panic and incredible amount of rage gets distracted by a cheeseburger. To disingenuously play with that isn't just rude or bitchy, you're fucking with my functioning foundation for fucking with life. I can recognize a scared bitch, an angry cunt, a stupid fuck, the insecure, defensive, sad, or a wanna-be “crazy.” But what do you make of a chaotic condescending malicious piece of trash who, so ashamed of themselves think it best to, not cope, not implode, or not speak with humility, but turn on the very concept of accountability or those who represent reasonable caution and concern?

It's a different, extra shitty animal. They aren't looking for sympathy for their poverty or past. They are daring you to acknowledge their depravity at any moment so they can invite you into it. I found myself relatively speechless because every word becomes an opportunity to be squeezed beyond comprehension. I meet a lot of pieces of shit, but when they go above and beyond, it's absolutely necessary to parse out their demon. You gotta know what you're fucking with and who's trying to fuck back.

[828] No Solution

This promises to be extra mundane and redundant. I wouldn't read it.

For quite some time, I've described variations on my “perfect day.” It's the flow from one form of indulgence to the next, be it work I consider meaningful, or the time and mental space to engage in something as deeply as it requires. I don't want to casually know my instruments, I want to play the most difficult riffs. When I was able to do so, I was spending minimum 8 hours a day. When you read a great work, you need time to put it down and pick it back up again while retaining the thoughts it conjured. When you go to build, you need to strike while the weather and help are on hand, so as not to continually push things back into the “forever one day” pile.

To be clear, I think it is impossible to achieve this flow with any degree of “regular work.” I think binding yourself to the construct of 9-to-5 is simply not how conscious experience functions. I get inspired at night. I'm awake at night. I carry a lot of the drama and nonsense, not so much in the form of internalizing it, but in that I have mirror-neurons, of my day-to-day. My experience is highjacked and apologized for. It's my job to “cope” and exhibit the mature detached stoicism to the degree I'm able. While you're working on all that, you're not dreaming about the circle of fifths.

I return often to my sense of “pragmatism.” I'm a normal kid brought up in a normal way. My deviations have come at great struggle and sacrifice. I've garnered a degree of anxiety and weird personality things that come along with feeling like the loneliest person on the planet. I'm reciting “in 3 months, in 6 paychecks, in just a few more hours” constantly. Like in 3 months I'll have a giant home edition and not be wishing for the space to have ten thousand more books and a shipping line.
You always need that thing to strive for. There always has to be more to accomplish. This is not a kind of personality flaw as it's sometimes described. There's “workaholics” who are doing everything in their power to remove themselves from otherwise psychological torture, and there's people perpetually able to recognize and consider what more can be contributed to the suring-up of the bases at-large and interpersonally.

I don't know if it's been a terribly longstanding feeling, but I feel like I'm being left behind. This sounds weird. By who? By what? I think time more broadly? It's still angsty 15-year old me writing with barely improved sentence structure and grammar. I'm still not a millionaire. I still don't have my working culture meant to churn out the kind of example I thought was as desperately required then as it is now. I've been idling in the parking lot. I've been paying homage to the “used to” in blogs. I'm not forcefully transcribing the anxiety of not feeling useful or worthwhile.

Has tempered enthusiasm won? Have I learned patience? Am I broken, and barley able to conceive of myself as such but through a depression-adjacent fog? That seems more than over-selling it. While there's something to be said of little things you might do to speak to the whole adding up over time, I'm the type that requires something big. I need to see the earth move. I need to feel the instant relief of the drain coming unclogged. Little things feel like a mockery. Even a shake up in your disposition. If I got the chance to draw out those reluctantly accepting faces during an interview to run the show at work, that might last me a week in commentary and speculation alone.

Not too long ago I wished I could fast-forward time. A day job will do that. The next 3 months will be over tomorrow and be the longest period of my life. The last year and a half has felt like an eternity. Having debt will add to the weight. Every day for 3 months I have to watch myself creep closer to the big shifts I might start to be able to make. Not talk about paying the bills a year in advance, have it done, and breath in that moment...every day...for the next year. Load my car up with the wood for my home addition. Click order on a boat-load of crap from Amazon. Buy up lot after lot of books and follow in the first footsteps of Amazon.

I really want another job. I don't just want to replace the one I have (moreso, I'd rather improve the one I have) I want to show that I've set another target that I'm capable of blowing out of the water. 3 months? Why not a month and a half? Why not work that job and make it to the gym, and figure out an eating situation that doesn't suggest low-key decadence? The will is definitely still there, but the bump against reality, the time constraint, and mental exhaustion cannot be denied. I did not respect them as variables in my vision of the future. I never got old or tied to this much crap I don't care about in the visions.

The trap then really is debt. I've been poor. Poor you can try to play things in the short term. Debt means someone's coming after you in a more aggressive way. Without debt, I could do that nonsense part-time thing, eat light, and poke my head into things in a more free to read and inquire sort of way. I don't need money to disassemble the broken truck engine. I'd barely need money to drive around picking up scrap metal in the truck. Hell, I was literally paying my rent donating plasma. I need to not get trapped. It seems like leeway, but it's truly a psychological trap. If I'm not actively working on or with whatever the reason I've gone into debt, it's a net psychological loss.

So some of the stuck is circumstantially justified. I am stuck paying off debt. That's 3 months of this job no matter what, or stuck that much longer if I quit or get fired for something dumb. As long as that remains the main focus, spending money here and there for progress on other things perpetuates the stuckness. Do I want that much more work done on the bathroom right now? It's caused me nothing but strife, so is hot water really worth feeling stuck for three and a half months? Not really. So I should accept my frozen ass and be thankful the toilet still basically flushes, and keep showering at Planet Fitness. I'm not obligated to make my builder guy feel like we're still on good terms by throwing him work he won't do in a timeframe that contributes to me feeling good anyway.

I killed the professional designation on Amazon for selling books, so I'm in no rush to figure out their stupid excel sheets for book listings. I bought more bricks to aide in keeping my shoes dry when walking across the land – affordable, achievable, practical. I'm in the middle of like 3 books I could just bother to focus on and complete, as well as could find audiobook copies. I could just sit and play videogames for a minute. I have a dozen I haven't even opened. 3 months in videogame time is like 10 minutes. There's ways to continue with aspects of my perfect flowy days without mocking it.

I need to remain “here.” I spend an incredible amount of unproductive time in the future. I don't allow myself room to breath, sleep, or enjoy unless I'm in good company, which is an incredibly small amount of my time. God forbid I actually surround myself with my people. I doubt I'd ever find the time to write about nothing again.