My Epinephrine
1-28-12
The need to write is so strong right now, but there are no words. There’s a glaring lack of declarative sentences, of deep and inquisitive questions as to the intricacies of the human psyche and the bullshit that is life.
How sad is it when you feel so hopeless that you are unable bitch and moan about it? I can’t summon the ability to list failures and limitations, my mind is content to just rest in the knowledge that everything blows. And that’s where Stagnantville lies. And it’s pretty shitty here. You float from place to place, minor even to minor event, with the occasional panic attack tossed in.
I can’t stop wanting what I want. A job, a family, a purpose… a cute little studio on Market Street… you know, life’s essentials. I want, more than anything, the feelings that came with the fuzzy and bright sun on the F line to Haight Ashbury. I NEED that back. I need large, old school glass syringes of it standing ready to keep me alive, Kirstin’s version of Epinephrine.