the picture painted
i have to stop ignoring my body, which i've been doing habitually out of spite for the past couple years, ever since "the uprising" down in san diego.
last night was (at least) the 3rd time in a space of months that i was actually convinced i was going to die from the attack i was having.
i can appreciate how ridiculous it is that i have trouble putting down the pipe, generally accepted as not chemically addictive, or even addictive at all by the masses, when in the past i've successfully quit both smoking and drinking altogether. both of which i did heavily for several years. hmph. go figure.
regardless, looks like it's time to quit smoking herb. and i'm only saying this as a meager form of reinforcement.
again.
CARE! care, you fucking fuck! it is time to give a shit. give a shit. give a shit. give a shit. i'm thirty. i am thirty.
i'm thirty
i'm thirty
i'm thirty
i'm thirty.
one thought i've been having is both reconciling and bothersome: what if, no matter what, this was my body's design all along? was it the fate of my nervous system to surrender to neurotic anxiety? allowing for this possibility, and disregarding everything i've done out of apathy to exacerbate the condition, i find myself pondering the state i'd be in if i hadn't up until now (or, honestly, years ago when "this all" developed in earnest) been a naturally stoic and relaxed individual. anyone that's met me in the previous years (since my tweens i suppose) would find that hard to swallow, i know. all character witnesses to what i'm begrudgingly coming to accept as a superior version of myself are gone, vanished or moved away. although every now and then i like to attempt to comfort myself by imagining my conscious state, had i always been this wound up. the picture painted is downright harrowing, but the comfort taken is harvested from the fact that as bleak as i feel, ahem, it could be worse. still at times, not much worse, and i'm bothered by the similarities between this imaginary, inferior self and me.
oh and my sister's makeup smells like pot. ex-fucking-actly. like. pot. wtf?
last night was (at least) the 3rd time in a space of months that i was actually convinced i was going to die from the attack i was having.
i can appreciate how ridiculous it is that i have trouble putting down the pipe, generally accepted as not chemically addictive, or even addictive at all by the masses, when in the past i've successfully quit both smoking and drinking altogether. both of which i did heavily for several years. hmph. go figure.
regardless, looks like it's time to quit smoking herb. and i'm only saying this as a meager form of reinforcement.
again.
CARE! care, you fucking fuck! it is time to give a shit. give a shit. give a shit. give a shit. i'm thirty. i am thirty.
i'm thirty
i'm thirty
i'm thirty
i'm thirty.
one thought i've been having is both reconciling and bothersome: what if, no matter what, this was my body's design all along? was it the fate of my nervous system to surrender to neurotic anxiety? allowing for this possibility, and disregarding everything i've done out of apathy to exacerbate the condition, i find myself pondering the state i'd be in if i hadn't up until now (or, honestly, years ago when "this all" developed in earnest) been a naturally stoic and relaxed individual. anyone that's met me in the previous years (since my tweens i suppose) would find that hard to swallow, i know. all character witnesses to what i'm begrudgingly coming to accept as a superior version of myself are gone, vanished or moved away. although every now and then i like to attempt to comfort myself by imagining my conscious state, had i always been this wound up. the picture painted is downright harrowing, but the comfort taken is harvested from the fact that as bleak as i feel, ahem, it could be worse. still at times, not much worse, and i'm bothered by the similarities between this imaginary, inferior self and me.
oh and my sister's makeup smells like pot. ex-fucking-actly. like. pot. wtf?