Economic Woes and Exploding Arms
I'm having one of those weeks. The kind where waking up is hard because the only thing that doesn't suck is sleep. I should really start exercising again, but I just can't seem to get up enough steam to do anything, let alone get my life straight. I've started yelling at myself, trying to climb to a higher altitude above the faltering economy, rising gas prices, and the cost of tea in China, but I can't seem to climb above the muck. Moving to Bellingham should help, or at least act as a momentary reprieve from my underwhelming Clarkstonian lifestyle. At least I'm not in a ditch yet.
I haven't been writing lately. I lost my voice in college; still haven't found it again, but I'm really not too worried. You write when you feel like writing. Lately I'm too depressed to write. I've got many ideas, nothing that seems original, but then nothing is original anymore. There's a huge money-making niche for the kind of writing I like to do. Unfortunately you can make more money panhandling than you can with poetry, and lately that's all I can write. I really ought to send one of my favorite poems off to a college publisher. How do you know you can't get published if you never try? I can finish poetry, just not my stories...I think I get bored way too easily with myself.
Three years in this cursed hell-hole and all I have to show for it is more debt and an emotional/mental clarity of how fucked my life has been until now. Nice. My toilet isn't working...I'm having to pirate (arrr) my father's toilet until my landlord gets our plumbing fixed. I can't even take a shower. Well, I could, but the whole thing would flood pretty quickly, and then I'd be stepping in my own body filth. Better dirty feet than a dirty torso.
I can't seem to get over this lingering feeling that someone out there is looking after me, caring about me from a distance. This is a real person, a breathing human being with a name. She wears no make-up and is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. I'm looking for her, and she's looking for me. We can communicate somewhat telepathically, though I believe most of it is lost in the intervening moments between her head and mine. I'm in love with her, and she's in love with me, but none of this is romantic, just a sort of melding of wounded souls. If I ever meet her, I'll know her instantly, but we'll probably never meet. The world is small but not that small. And it's getting bigger everyday.
I had a sex dream about a gorgeous redhead...she had short hair, which I very rarely like, though it does look stunning on certain girls; she was one of them. I caught her sleeping with another man, but she didn't belong to me, so for some reason I wasn't jealous about it...more distrubing, in the same dream I saw a man get his arm drilled into by some sort of drill or hand saw. The arm exploded (ala anime style)...I could see the tendons and muscles being shredded and then the bone cracking apart as his forearm fell to pieces leaving a ragged, bloody stump behind. It might have been me getting my arm sawed off, but I'm not sure. I watched it happen, so that means there were two of me and that my dreams have a very cinematic quality (which is all I learned other than power tools are nasty implements of human brutality).
Xanax is my friend...so is St. John's Wort. I've decided to post anything I'm thinking about...It's a journal, right? Lucky...
I haven't been writing lately. I lost my voice in college; still haven't found it again, but I'm really not too worried. You write when you feel like writing. Lately I'm too depressed to write. I've got many ideas, nothing that seems original, but then nothing is original anymore. There's a huge money-making niche for the kind of writing I like to do. Unfortunately you can make more money panhandling than you can with poetry, and lately that's all I can write. I really ought to send one of my favorite poems off to a college publisher. How do you know you can't get published if you never try? I can finish poetry, just not my stories...I think I get bored way too easily with myself.
Three years in this cursed hell-hole and all I have to show for it is more debt and an emotional/mental clarity of how fucked my life has been until now. Nice. My toilet isn't working...I'm having to pirate (arrr) my father's toilet until my landlord gets our plumbing fixed. I can't even take a shower. Well, I could, but the whole thing would flood pretty quickly, and then I'd be stepping in my own body filth. Better dirty feet than a dirty torso.
I can't seem to get over this lingering feeling that someone out there is looking after me, caring about me from a distance. This is a real person, a breathing human being with a name. She wears no make-up and is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen. I'm looking for her, and she's looking for me. We can communicate somewhat telepathically, though I believe most of it is lost in the intervening moments between her head and mine. I'm in love with her, and she's in love with me, but none of this is romantic, just a sort of melding of wounded souls. If I ever meet her, I'll know her instantly, but we'll probably never meet. The world is small but not that small. And it's getting bigger everyday.
I had a sex dream about a gorgeous redhead...she had short hair, which I very rarely like, though it does look stunning on certain girls; she was one of them. I caught her sleeping with another man, but she didn't belong to me, so for some reason I wasn't jealous about it...more distrubing, in the same dream I saw a man get his arm drilled into by some sort of drill or hand saw. The arm exploded (ala anime style)...I could see the tendons and muscles being shredded and then the bone cracking apart as his forearm fell to pieces leaving a ragged, bloody stump behind. It might have been me getting my arm sawed off, but I'm not sure. I watched it happen, so that means there were two of me and that my dreams have a very cinematic quality (which is all I learned other than power tools are nasty implements of human brutality).
Xanax is my friend...so is St. John's Wort. I've decided to post anything I'm thinking about...It's a journal, right? Lucky...