(no subject)
Sometimes the guilt of general existence gets overwhelming.
A few weeks ago I broke my long-standing hiatus from bridge burning. I poured gasoline all over it, lit a match, and laughed maniacally as it's flaming corpse dropped into the ravine. I didn't feel all that badly about it. Among other things, I told her that her lack of consideration for other people was like driving around in a car with her eyes closed: Lack of intent doesn't let her off the hook. I am not trying to be cryptic by not providing names or details. More accurately, I just doubt that it really matters. History shows that I'll probably forget all about it in three years anyway. For example, in 2003 I had a long running relationship with a cute redhead. Do you know why we broke up? Neither do I. Don't care either. Shit happens. When it's not interesting, it's better just to make a bunch of flowery metaphors about it.
I'm dating a girl again. This one doesn't wear glasses. She works at a place with a thumb-print scanner on the time clock. She rides a BMX from the early 1990s, complete with black plastic wheels. She's cool. She has the ability to think about the future as a tangible, reachable thing. I have a very hard time explaining to her that I do not have that ability.
At times, I feel a small amount of betrayal at the idea that Jeffrey Lewis is sort-of famous. A week or so ago (some time after the bridge-burning), my friend Betsy (whom I love very much) sent me a stack of four of his comic books. I've been reading them in small doses, and breaking frequently to cope with what I've read. Between his art and his music, this guy crushes my soul, and it only really seems to get worse. Not only can he match me for anxiety and depression, but he seems to have me utterly defeated in terms of ambition and, I don't know, actual-ability-to-live-life. The first comic book is largely about his unplanned backpacking trip through Europe. I know people do things like that. Hell, I know people that do things like that. I'm just not one of them. Furthermore, I can't be. It's not in me.
I feel trapped between extremes. I will never have a real career. I don't even want one. But on the other hand, I will never be free like the people I admire. I'm always going to be tied something stationary and mediocre. I always have been. There's no reason to think that will ever change.
I want to go on a stupidly long bike ride. I can't even imagine how the hell that sort of thing is possible.
A few weeks ago I broke my long-standing hiatus from bridge burning. I poured gasoline all over it, lit a match, and laughed maniacally as it's flaming corpse dropped into the ravine. I didn't feel all that badly about it. Among other things, I told her that her lack of consideration for other people was like driving around in a car with her eyes closed: Lack of intent doesn't let her off the hook. I am not trying to be cryptic by not providing names or details. More accurately, I just doubt that it really matters. History shows that I'll probably forget all about it in three years anyway. For example, in 2003 I had a long running relationship with a cute redhead. Do you know why we broke up? Neither do I. Don't care either. Shit happens. When it's not interesting, it's better just to make a bunch of flowery metaphors about it.
I'm dating a girl again. This one doesn't wear glasses. She works at a place with a thumb-print scanner on the time clock. She rides a BMX from the early 1990s, complete with black plastic wheels. She's cool. She has the ability to think about the future as a tangible, reachable thing. I have a very hard time explaining to her that I do not have that ability.
At times, I feel a small amount of betrayal at the idea that Jeffrey Lewis is sort-of famous. A week or so ago (some time after the bridge-burning), my friend Betsy (whom I love very much) sent me a stack of four of his comic books. I've been reading them in small doses, and breaking frequently to cope with what I've read. Between his art and his music, this guy crushes my soul, and it only really seems to get worse. Not only can he match me for anxiety and depression, but he seems to have me utterly defeated in terms of ambition and, I don't know, actual-ability-to-live-life. The first comic book is largely about his unplanned backpacking trip through Europe. I know people do things like that. Hell, I know people that do things like that. I'm just not one of them. Furthermore, I can't be. It's not in me.
I feel trapped between extremes. I will never have a real career. I don't even want one. But on the other hand, I will never be free like the people I admire. I'm always going to be tied something stationary and mediocre. I always have been. There's no reason to think that will ever change.
I want to go on a stupidly long bike ride. I can't even imagine how the hell that sort of thing is possible.