oh, my... it has been awhile
Secret Machines were great. I just wish I had been awash in the gauzy state of psychoactive swim.
Other than that?
I hate everything and wish I was dead more than ever. I guess I had my 'good run' of three days or so and now it's back to not being able to conjure the energy to imagine a reason why I should keep showing up. All there is is work work anxiety work anxiety loss of identity isolation work anxiety fleeting moment of delusional non-hatred work work anxiety panic rage and work.
I am dipped in shit. I just need to leave this place and disappear.
Mexico. That keeps sounding better than, say - here.
I envision sort of a "Leaving Las Vegas" but not as cool; just sort of petering out the savings while living under the radar in the high plains of Old Mexico... eating delicious but dangerous cuisine, drinking oneself blind, trying to write some memoirs whilst getting further into drugs, prostitutes, and debt with local businessmen.
And then you die.
Maybe you OD. Maybe you get hit by a truck as you stumble drunkenly home one night up cobbled streets. Maybe you get irreversibly ill after taking up with too many skeezy call girls. Maybe a couple thugs come looking for you and settle up the old-fashioned way. All of this sounds more romantic than ulcerating oneself in utter emptiness; detached from all humanity but putting in way too many hours.
Why is it so easy to despise me; to ignore me; to forget that I am a person.
Fuck, even *I* forget I am a person.
Other than that?
I hate everything and wish I was dead more than ever. I guess I had my 'good run' of three days or so and now it's back to not being able to conjure the energy to imagine a reason why I should keep showing up. All there is is work work anxiety work anxiety loss of identity isolation work anxiety fleeting moment of delusional non-hatred work work anxiety panic rage and work.
I am dipped in shit. I just need to leave this place and disappear.
Mexico. That keeps sounding better than, say - here.
I envision sort of a "Leaving Las Vegas" but not as cool; just sort of petering out the savings while living under the radar in the high plains of Old Mexico... eating delicious but dangerous cuisine, drinking oneself blind, trying to write some memoirs whilst getting further into drugs, prostitutes, and debt with local businessmen.
And then you die.
Maybe you OD. Maybe you get hit by a truck as you stumble drunkenly home one night up cobbled streets. Maybe you get irreversibly ill after taking up with too many skeezy call girls. Maybe a couple thugs come looking for you and settle up the old-fashioned way. All of this sounds more romantic than ulcerating oneself in utter emptiness; detached from all humanity but putting in way too many hours.
Why is it so easy to despise me; to ignore me; to forget that I am a person.
Fuck, even *I* forget I am a person.