This is a tough one. I don’t have anything I used to have. Nick’s gone. Amber’s gone. I don’t date Ashley anymore. I’m years in the past, but you know what, I’m not ashamed–the past was good, why not relish it?
I don’t know why I feel the urge to move when things are still. Some sort of restlessness. It’s hard to tell what’s a side effect of a pill these days and what’s a bona fide condition or problem that I have. That’s pretty shitty isn’t it. Not to know even why you’re so shaky.
I’m so beaten. Weatherworn. This disease totally has wrecked me. Do I swear? Should I? Do I need to dry my laundry a bit more? Ugh. Chores.
I want to have some easy time. I need to do some catch up work for work. That’s the opposite. Yes. Fantastic.
And reading. Or. What? Getting lost in these fantasy worlds? I watched the beginning of the first episode of Shanara (yes, the Netflix series after the book series) with my mom, and it was just so ecstatic. Not just happy, but emotional. I miss being emotional. I miss having emotions. I feel so dead all the time.
Should read more Plath, I guess. Finish her anthology. Her complete works. Finish and move on. What is me.
I get these little obsessions, don’t I. Now it’s Twitch. Before it was Nick. I don’t know what it was before that. Demons demons demons. You have to write like it doesn’t matter that you’re the last person in the universe reading or writing. You have to convey your message to anyone who dares face it, aeons from now. That’s not really the right way to put it, but maybe you’ll understand. Someone, somewhere, maybe, there is a chance, and it’s not zero, that someone will read my journal–yes even the parts where I spew hate speech and violent ideologies. And I suppose they will not really jump to any conclusions. They will be mellow and level-headed. Perhaps a silent “Oh wow, this guy…” and yes, this guy. What I am. It’s scary to me.
Three little suboxone tablets on my desk. The sound of mom coming up stairs. I take them sublingually.
Mom showed up and talked some weird stuff like apparently the guy who invented McAfee antivirus who is supposedly very smart computer engineer, turned into a small gang leader and died in prison recently. Like he murdered his neighbor who complained about the loudness of his dogs and had bodyguards with guns and whores in Beliz and stuff. Swanky lifestyle. Horrifying and unnatural, more like.
So she tells me this story. Then she guilt trips me for not working on the computer programming for work first thing this morning. Here I am trying to regain my lost soul and she wants me to work. It’d be healthy, yeah, but I really just don’t want to and that desire not want to is rather strong so I guess it “wins”. She was calling herself weak but I guess I’m just like her. I mean she can work but a lot of her loved ones died so she blames herself. I don’t get involved with the guilt. I’m much cooler than her. So are the brothers.
Love smelling my arm pits. I like how I smell. I think I smell very good and any woman of good compatibility would like how I smell too. It would not be romantic or sexual she would just coolly say, like I coolly say things, she would coolly say, “You smell good,” and that would be that.
Wow! I’m so proud of myself this blog post turned out to be much longer! How did that happen! Well anyway that’s what I’ve been going for. It’s a struggle, dear blog and blogging friends, it’s a struggle, and there have been tons of things in our way–demons, meanies, bullies, hallucinations, delusions, psychic hackers–lots of real and imaginary threats. Life’s been horrifying. It has been non-life. I’m not losing the topic, trust me. I know. We are here for a reason. We are here to live. To be the best we can be. This is no–I see you are not doing your best either, friend. Well I wish you well. Feel free to stick around. If you like me I don’t mind. No cramping my style if being nice. I mean. Whatever. Human etiquette. The basics. We all know this stuff. Oh you feel self-conscious as of now. Mmm mmm. I see I see. Well I hope you feel better soon. What can I say? I’ll keep going and this blog post is so long! See? I love it.
Mom made some eggs but I am sucking on the suboxone and she keeps yelling for me to come downstairs and I keep yelling “suboxone” and she doesn’t get it and I specifically explain and with it in my mouth with that me sounding like a baby because it’s in my mouth so she gets it finally and lays off.
Lays eggs, lays off, lays on.
Lays beside me and thinks.
A thinking organism.
Some of my favorite people have tormented me in my lucid nightmares the worst out of anyone else I’ve ever known. My mother tortured me for three months in bed (non-sexually, I don’t know the details), remember? This was in the previous house, about six years ago. Wow. Life is horrifying. What nightmares the mind can’t conjure. Psychosis, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, all these mental illnesses are horrifying.
How you find who I know?
How I know.
How you know.
Why some things are harder to say than others.
I just guess. It doesn’t mean anything. Trust. Trust. It doesn’t mean anything.
I need to get some programming done but first I need to do something artistic. Maybe read some Plath or work on my poetry book #2. Ugh. I really liked it but then I got jaded and now I loathe it. I don’t understand, these perspectives, these moods. Strength. Why strength. Why not just the natural going-on of things? I don’t see. You all think I’m more mature and stronger than I really am. I’m a child. Nothing more. Some can even vouch for that. Or maybe no one can.
Well I guess I should eat breakfast.