(no subject)
I tried to bother Tim Cruz tonight with the details of my latest lack of energy, but he obviously had better things to do. As Catherine is tired of hearing it, and everyone else is sleeping or doesn't care, I will tell all to you, precious cyber journal.
Again, I am in Wilkes-Barre, a.k.a. the End of the World. On Saturday I celebrated as my father was initiated into the Over Fifty Club by drinking entirely too much and having over sentimental conversations with everyone -- ones that nobody ever remembers, only traces of their existence litter the dirty floor our your mind. These conversations are fun, always, and they tend to reveal the inner workings of everybody's mind and soul, as some say people project the truth behind drunken banter.
Yeah, that's fairly depressing. Its one of those things that you think about the next day and say, "Why did I do that?" or at least, "Wow, that just wasn't a good idea." I knew it wasn't a good idea when I found myself on the bathroom floor in the fetal position, the door banging off of my head as my dad tries to get in to piss. It was dawn when that happened. Afterward, I trailed off down the hallway and made it into my bed some how.
So why am I so sad now? It could be the hangover, which was a noteworthy one, and the fact that I've been running around all day doing one thing or another, spontaneously making a schedule accounting for only the next hour, and having to follow through with it flawlessly or someone is going to miss their ride back to Philly. Those that know me also know that I hate spontaneity, as well as lots of people, lots of talking, and lots of noise. Today was obviously full of that.
We went shopping, we being Amy, Paul, and I. I hate shopping, and with good reason. When I was younger, I was buying pants in the Gap and passed out, falling to the floor like a lead statue, taking out a rack on the way with my head and spinal chord. When I came to, I found a few friends around me and my worried mother who was already telling me how, when she was called over PA in the mall, she thought I tried to rob the place. I suppose that was foreshadowing, you clever God, you.
Anyways, so we shopped. As one may be able to deduce, when I shop, I clam up, I get sweaty, I get frustrated, and get frustrated more easily than ever. Even though I wasn't "shopping" I was still in the stores with the aforementioned dislikes of mine, trying to kill time by playing catch with Paul and taking pictures of him dressed up in matching neon orange pants and shirts and walking around the store.
Today was fun, by all means, but at the end of it I am not physically tired. I am mentally tired, but even so it does not feel like exhaustion, but an emptiness of some sort.
I began to rant to Tim about how Time, the archenemy of mankind, manages to loiter about, nonchalantly doing as he pleases even though his schedule the busiest of all, yet still always arrives exactly when he was supposed to. Its truly bizarre! When you need Time around, he disappears on you. When you're waiting for him to arrive, he takes his bloody time. Insatiable bastard.
I began to rant to Tim about the Future, who I will not personify. Well, maybe a little. Time has Future locked in his closet, and he only let's him out one piece at a time. His fingernail, a few strands of hair, a tooth here and there. I take these pieces and assemble them the best I could, but will Time ever give me the pieces I need? Surely, when I die, Future will be complete, and I will no longer have to wait for the next dismembered puzzle piece. Its funny though, shocking even: the assembled parts of Future resemble me almost exactly.
Time, do you have my evil twin?
As I have already discussed, my distaste for spontaneity is responsible for each of my actions. Many, many. I am often plotting out my days and forming extensive to do lists -- so detailed that often add in the time it takes for the butter to melt right before I fry my eggs. That's an exaggeration, but at the same time, its a truth. How nice it is to be honest when you're not intoxicated.
This scheduling I desire so much, not matter how hard I try, can not force Time to arrive any sooner, nor can it convince him to cough up pieces of Future before he is ready to. How I desire nothing more than stability, yet it is always out of reach. Adults depress me, but surely they are not the source of this ditch. Its just so hard to see stable people with schedules, jobs, and lives; stability, basically, and then reflect upon yourself and make comparisons. Its so depressing to know that in another year or two, I will have to move again! And again! And again! Where will I be in five years? In four? In two? Nobody can tell me, and the suspense screws me deeper and deeper in to the plywood base I pretend is the stability in my life.
And still, there is more. Even though I am being educated, or honed, or cultivated, college itself is a massive gamble. The dice were rolled for me, but I wasn't exactly passive. Its more like I gave them to Lady Luck to rub them on her breasts before tossing my life on to the the craps table. Or something table, I'm not a gambler (write what you know, Gary, write what you know).
Oh, I'm done. Chances are you didn't even read this far because you got bored with my useless ranting, much like this sentence. Its worth nothing, but at the same time, its worth something.
I can't wait to see what piece I'll get tomorrow. Yay.
Again, I am in Wilkes-Barre, a.k.a. the End of the World. On Saturday I celebrated as my father was initiated into the Over Fifty Club by drinking entirely too much and having over sentimental conversations with everyone -- ones that nobody ever remembers, only traces of their existence litter the dirty floor our your mind. These conversations are fun, always, and they tend to reveal the inner workings of everybody's mind and soul, as some say people project the truth behind drunken banter.
Yeah, that's fairly depressing. Its one of those things that you think about the next day and say, "Why did I do that?" or at least, "Wow, that just wasn't a good idea." I knew it wasn't a good idea when I found myself on the bathroom floor in the fetal position, the door banging off of my head as my dad tries to get in to piss. It was dawn when that happened. Afterward, I trailed off down the hallway and made it into my bed some how.
So why am I so sad now? It could be the hangover, which was a noteworthy one, and the fact that I've been running around all day doing one thing or another, spontaneously making a schedule accounting for only the next hour, and having to follow through with it flawlessly or someone is going to miss their ride back to Philly. Those that know me also know that I hate spontaneity, as well as lots of people, lots of talking, and lots of noise. Today was obviously full of that.
We went shopping, we being Amy, Paul, and I. I hate shopping, and with good reason. When I was younger, I was buying pants in the Gap and passed out, falling to the floor like a lead statue, taking out a rack on the way with my head and spinal chord. When I came to, I found a few friends around me and my worried mother who was already telling me how, when she was called over PA in the mall, she thought I tried to rob the place. I suppose that was foreshadowing, you clever God, you.
Anyways, so we shopped. As one may be able to deduce, when I shop, I clam up, I get sweaty, I get frustrated, and get frustrated more easily than ever. Even though I wasn't "shopping" I was still in the stores with the aforementioned dislikes of mine, trying to kill time by playing catch with Paul and taking pictures of him dressed up in matching neon orange pants and shirts and walking around the store.
Today was fun, by all means, but at the end of it I am not physically tired. I am mentally tired, but even so it does not feel like exhaustion, but an emptiness of some sort.
I began to rant to Tim about how Time, the archenemy of mankind, manages to loiter about, nonchalantly doing as he pleases even though his schedule the busiest of all, yet still always arrives exactly when he was supposed to. Its truly bizarre! When you need Time around, he disappears on you. When you're waiting for him to arrive, he takes his bloody time. Insatiable bastard.
I began to rant to Tim about the Future, who I will not personify. Well, maybe a little. Time has Future locked in his closet, and he only let's him out one piece at a time. His fingernail, a few strands of hair, a tooth here and there. I take these pieces and assemble them the best I could, but will Time ever give me the pieces I need? Surely, when I die, Future will be complete, and I will no longer have to wait for the next dismembered puzzle piece. Its funny though, shocking even: the assembled parts of Future resemble me almost exactly.
Time, do you have my evil twin?
As I have already discussed, my distaste for spontaneity is responsible for each of my actions. Many, many. I am often plotting out my days and forming extensive to do lists -- so detailed that often add in the time it takes for the butter to melt right before I fry my eggs. That's an exaggeration, but at the same time, its a truth. How nice it is to be honest when you're not intoxicated.
This scheduling I desire so much, not matter how hard I try, can not force Time to arrive any sooner, nor can it convince him to cough up pieces of Future before he is ready to. How I desire nothing more than stability, yet it is always out of reach. Adults depress me, but surely they are not the source of this ditch. Its just so hard to see stable people with schedules, jobs, and lives; stability, basically, and then reflect upon yourself and make comparisons. Its so depressing to know that in another year or two, I will have to move again! And again! And again! Where will I be in five years? In four? In two? Nobody can tell me, and the suspense screws me deeper and deeper in to the plywood base I pretend is the stability in my life.
And still, there is more. Even though I am being educated, or honed, or cultivated, college itself is a massive gamble. The dice were rolled for me, but I wasn't exactly passive. Its more like I gave them to Lady Luck to rub them on her breasts before tossing my life on to the the craps table. Or something table, I'm not a gambler (write what you know, Gary, write what you know).
Oh, I'm done. Chances are you didn't even read this far because you got bored with my useless ranting, much like this sentence. Its worth nothing, but at the same time, its worth something.
I can't wait to see what piece I'll get tomorrow. Yay.