Who the fuck thought up yogurt sauce in the first place?!
I don't sleep anymore. It's practically impossible for me to fall asleep before at least 3:30 in the damn morning. I hate it. I run out of things to do. There's only so much on the internet, people slowly disappear offline until I'm left in a virtual no-man's-land of cyberspace, the only book I have left that I brought down with me ended up being a thinly veiled working-class Christianity doctrine (how the fuck did I end up buying that one?), and there's definitely nothing on TV worth sacrificing my brain cells to at this hour. Oh well...it'll pass. It's all a cycle. You go to bed late, ou wake up late, which means you won't be able to get to bed until late again the next night, and so on and so forth. Maybe I should invest in some black-market Ambien...in fact, I think I know just the person to call.
So, tonight was quite the night. A failed attempt at a hike turned into a night spent wandering virtually aimlessly around San Luis (that makes for the third such night in the week or so since I've been back). Usual order of things ensued: coffee, sitting, chain-smoking, food (whichever one of you came up with Moroccan...arg. You can't just spring falafel on my stomach, it needs time to prepare), more sitting at the coffee shop, more chain smoking, slowly made decisions, and an eventual arrival at someone's house full of people I don't know who have brought with them yet more people I don't know. This of course all leads to more chain-smoking, and the occassional nip desite the fact that "I shouldn't, I'm driving," which eventual leads to the permeation of my new sweater with the mingled odors of four brands of cheap cigarettes and probably some spilt beer.
It's not really as bas as I make it out to be though. I don't have to hang around; it's mainly my own fault the sweater is now stinking up my bedroom; the falafel didn't make me sick, just "funny feeling"; and I did run into an interesting assortment of relics from the past. Of course, there's the normal motley crew who always end up at the table, but then there's SLO Crowd Part Deux (aka, my former roommate from last year, and his two high school buddies). It was odd enough spending time with these guys up in Arcata after I found out they were all from San Luis, but running into them in front of the apartment of an acquaintances younger sister is even stranger. It was nice to see them though, they're good guys, and they seem even better and jollier away from the woods. If nothing else, this means I'll finally get my guitar back. Maybe.
I can rant, and rave about the state of things here as much as I want. I can come to the realization over and over again that it doesn't only frustrate me, it depresses me. But each time (afer I've left the acquaintance's little sister's house, or the other acquaintance's drug dealer's brother's house, or what ever random awkward apartment we've found ourselves at by the end of each night of nothing), I can't help but wonder if I really am just jealous. Am I jealous that none of them remember my name, but they all remember the tale of the guy who supposedly keeps selling his cd's and buying only vinyl? Am I jealous that all of them are skinnier, "hipper," and more easily remembered than me? I suppose I have to be honest and say yes, to some degree I am jealous, but not jealous of any of those precise things. I suppose I'm jealous of the fact that nobody ever sent me the memo. I missed out on the meeting where we all apparently decided that addiction was something to be admired, amd that everyone's suddenly a "photographer" if they can take a fairly-well focused, over-exposed picture of their own hand. I can't really call it jealousy though, it's more like fear. A deep seated fear that I am what I hate. Or worse yet: that I want to be.
So, tonight was quite the night. A failed attempt at a hike turned into a night spent wandering virtually aimlessly around San Luis (that makes for the third such night in the week or so since I've been back). Usual order of things ensued: coffee, sitting, chain-smoking, food (whichever one of you came up with Moroccan...arg. You can't just spring falafel on my stomach, it needs time to prepare), more sitting at the coffee shop, more chain smoking, slowly made decisions, and an eventual arrival at someone's house full of people I don't know who have brought with them yet more people I don't know. This of course all leads to more chain-smoking, and the occassional nip desite the fact that "I shouldn't, I'm driving," which eventual leads to the permeation of my new sweater with the mingled odors of four brands of cheap cigarettes and probably some spilt beer.
It's not really as bas as I make it out to be though. I don't have to hang around; it's mainly my own fault the sweater is now stinking up my bedroom; the falafel didn't make me sick, just "funny feeling"; and I did run into an interesting assortment of relics from the past. Of course, there's the normal motley crew who always end up at the table, but then there's SLO Crowd Part Deux (aka, my former roommate from last year, and his two high school buddies). It was odd enough spending time with these guys up in Arcata after I found out they were all from San Luis, but running into them in front of the apartment of an acquaintances younger sister is even stranger. It was nice to see them though, they're good guys, and they seem even better and jollier away from the woods. If nothing else, this means I'll finally get my guitar back. Maybe.
I can rant, and rave about the state of things here as much as I want. I can come to the realization over and over again that it doesn't only frustrate me, it depresses me. But each time (afer I've left the acquaintance's little sister's house, or the other acquaintance's drug dealer's brother's house, or what ever random awkward apartment we've found ourselves at by the end of each night of nothing), I can't help but wonder if I really am just jealous. Am I jealous that none of them remember my name, but they all remember the tale of the guy who supposedly keeps selling his cd's and buying only vinyl? Am I jealous that all of them are skinnier, "hipper," and more easily remembered than me? I suppose I have to be honest and say yes, to some degree I am jealous, but not jealous of any of those precise things. I suppose I'm jealous of the fact that nobody ever sent me the memo. I missed out on the meeting where we all apparently decided that addiction was something to be admired, amd that everyone's suddenly a "photographer" if they can take a fairly-well focused, over-exposed picture of their own hand. I can't really call it jealousy though, it's more like fear. A deep seated fear that I am what I hate. Or worse yet: that I want to be.