I thought we were over this.
I have problems.
I'm not talking, oh-shit, I'm-crazy problems. That would be really outdated information. I mean, I have problems. Real problems. The kind that you open your mouth to speak and no air comes out. You sit down and you think, maybe I should say something as to why I've been so shitty, lately. But the real reason is I'm a shitty person, and I don't think anything is going to justify that. Besides, that's not my problem, it's those who have to deal with me.
I also have petty problems. And I can speak of these with more ease. "Yeah, I'm not sure if it's the drugs or if I'm not sexy, enough." Ha-ha petty problems.. "I don't think he turns me on, anymore, but this is my chance to get it," shuffle through the turnstile, catch the train. And you find yourself with a briefcase and umbrella at hand (so responsible!), dread pooling your shoes.
I have problems at work. Some of my coworkers are really asinine bastards who love to deprecate others to feel a sense of accomplishment. They think that belittling another will somehow give them enough surf to get over the high rise. They're 'in' now. Crew Starbucks-For-Life. And they're all so petty and gross it makes me shudder to know even I can succumb to such petty states. And I don't understand how they can think so highly of themselves. The moment a person walks out the door, they talk about him/her. It's enough to make you sigh. I probably appear boring because I'm not a very active participant unless somebody honestly bothers me. I became elevated today because another coworker shared this very sentiment. Yeah, people make slight nasty comments about one another. Okay, that's because we're assholes. Check. But lately it's carrying a serrated edge.
But work problems mean little to me, unless I feel overwhelmed with the possibility my future won't rise more than this.
And they're not even future problems. They're right-now problems.
And I want to crumple and cry, but that would be senseless.
I'm crazy, but I'm not a fucking sobbing, fettering bag of human flesh.
I have my health. Supposedly lost my sanity. But hey, I have my bike, and it doesn't talk enough to bore me.
My mental health doesn't worry me a bit.
I have a disgusting leech withdrawing my time and trying to manifest himself into a picture he thinks is me. We're still on the palette and I'll use this to mix and apply a layer of shading to a quarter-inch square of biodegradable canvas. It makes me feel sick, but I also feel somewhat smug. Accomplished, even. Totally revolting. Please, give me life, already. Stop sending in your moldy, over-processed leftovers.
That's only a mild annoyance, that's not my problem.
Mine is more concrete, and the threadwork applied to my limbs causes the deviation to exert a mild force that steadily evolves into dismemberment.
Rising tensions?
Pop!
It's all fucking pop culture, my life, my problems, my music, my jobs, my shitty livejournal.
And I don't really care. That's not my problem. It's all so perfect as a delusion from life's serious setbacks. Concealer for your true debris.
I'm succumbing to the fact I'm not going to amount to anything.
The real problem is that I think I can live with that.
I think I want to live.
As if there was any doubt.
Surf's up.
I'm not talking, oh-shit, I'm-crazy problems. That would be really outdated information. I mean, I have problems. Real problems. The kind that you open your mouth to speak and no air comes out. You sit down and you think, maybe I should say something as to why I've been so shitty, lately. But the real reason is I'm a shitty person, and I don't think anything is going to justify that. Besides, that's not my problem, it's those who have to deal with me.
I also have petty problems. And I can speak of these with more ease. "Yeah, I'm not sure if it's the drugs or if I'm not sexy, enough." Ha-ha petty problems.. "I don't think he turns me on, anymore, but this is my chance to get it," shuffle through the turnstile, catch the train. And you find yourself with a briefcase and umbrella at hand (so responsible!), dread pooling your shoes.
I have problems at work. Some of my coworkers are really asinine bastards who love to deprecate others to feel a sense of accomplishment. They think that belittling another will somehow give them enough surf to get over the high rise. They're 'in' now. Crew Starbucks-For-Life. And they're all so petty and gross it makes me shudder to know even I can succumb to such petty states. And I don't understand how they can think so highly of themselves. The moment a person walks out the door, they talk about him/her. It's enough to make you sigh. I probably appear boring because I'm not a very active participant unless somebody honestly bothers me. I became elevated today because another coworker shared this very sentiment. Yeah, people make slight nasty comments about one another. Okay, that's because we're assholes. Check. But lately it's carrying a serrated edge.
But work problems mean little to me, unless I feel overwhelmed with the possibility my future won't rise more than this.
And they're not even future problems. They're right-now problems.
And I want to crumple and cry, but that would be senseless.
I'm crazy, but I'm not a fucking sobbing, fettering bag of human flesh.
I have my health. Supposedly lost my sanity. But hey, I have my bike, and it doesn't talk enough to bore me.
My mental health doesn't worry me a bit.
I have a disgusting leech withdrawing my time and trying to manifest himself into a picture he thinks is me. We're still on the palette and I'll use this to mix and apply a layer of shading to a quarter-inch square of biodegradable canvas. It makes me feel sick, but I also feel somewhat smug. Accomplished, even. Totally revolting. Please, give me life, already. Stop sending in your moldy, over-processed leftovers.
That's only a mild annoyance, that's not my problem.
Mine is more concrete, and the threadwork applied to my limbs causes the deviation to exert a mild force that steadily evolves into dismemberment.
Rising tensions?
Pop!
It's all fucking pop culture, my life, my problems, my music, my jobs, my shitty livejournal.
And I don't really care. That's not my problem. It's all so perfect as a delusion from life's serious setbacks. Concealer for your true debris.
I'm succumbing to the fact I'm not going to amount to anything.
The real problem is that I think I can live with that.
I think I want to live.
As if there was any doubt.
Surf's up.