Whew, I'm longwinded.
I walked back to my room, found it messed to hell. As though the very dankest depths of my wardrobe had finally let out the last little wisps of life they had in them and zombified, futilely attempting to over-throw my room. The spare bed was out, the sheets on my own bed ripped off and haphazardly hanging near a bag of someone else’s taco bell. The receiver on the fax machine -a stranger in a strange land by all accounts- is sticky with a spilled beverage of god knows what. There is blood on the mattress, from a friendly romp with Katrina, and though I know its origins to the second, I’m still pretty grossed out.
I never clean this fucking room. I just let it stagnate till one day I’m trying to find [obscure object X] and the stress of looking for it gets so bad that I start to have a panic attack, which ultimately results in me either heading to the living room and falling asleep feebly on the couch, or picking out melodies on the piano with lots of repetitive complex chords until I’ve forgotten the strife of a middle-class worthless teenager with too many wordly possessions.
Once I hit that point, if I’m lucky, my mom will be on another one of her binges where the house is cleaned and remodeled a thousand times in 3 days. She’ll get those giant eyes, sickly globes finally completely emerged from the shells of a scorned house-maker, and she’ll tell me I’ve got one day to clean it up, or she’ll start throwing things away. It is this unfortunate time that allows me to fully muster the completely inadequate nihilism innate in the mind of anyone with an IQ above 110, and decide “material objects will rot and rust, and anything she would be willing to throw away can’t be something that dear to me”, so I’ll settle back down to the book I’m reading, or much more likely the game I’m playing (because god knows I’m not elite enough to be reading when this occurs), and a few days later I might come to the revelation that the [obscure object X] is probably residing on a friend’s shelf, or much much worse, on the shelf of a salvation army.
I’ve done a lot of doing lately. I say doing, because the thinking I’ve done lately doesn’t amount to much. I spent the entirety of last week getting fucked up beyond recognition repeatedly night after night, I spent 5 days in a row not sleeping in my bed (and much to my disdain not in someone else’s either). I got high for the first time, the first 4 times actually. I liked it/loved it/hated it/thought it was the best thing ever/thought it was over-rated/will never do it again/will probably do it again. I love the idea of becoming the shell of a man for some time. I know I’m probably letting a lot of people down with this news, but don’t worry, I don’t have the constitution to become a pot-head. I love you all the same, I haven’t changed yada yada yada.
Anyway, the debauchery was rather comforting. I rarely have a third-person perspective of myself, and this either clarified things for me, or intensified that difficulty, I’m not sure which. This is not in the least a sign of low self-esteem; rather I just have no idea what I am like in the eyes of others, whatsoever.
Gabby and Noah broke up, which is a shame. They were at least a moderately functional couple, and a huge portion of my summer was spent with those two. Far worse though is Gabby post-break-up. She propositioned me for sex no less than two times, and constantly, hesitantly nearly asked me out. Then finally, without vocal input on my part, came to her own conclusions and by her admission “shunned me for being gay”, which I do not hold against her in the least.
You see the stitch of it all is, by god, I would love to have sex with you Gabby, and I do not doubt that I would be capable of it, and would even probably enjoy it, but there is an intangible not-rightness to it. If there were ever a straight person secure enough in their own sexuality to admit that, despite the desire not existing, a homosexual encounter could be extremely mutually gratifying, they would understand me.
I should note, radically removing any flow that this entry had, that the parties I attended were all hilarious in their own ways. Everyone in the house was stripped down to their underwear and dancing and singing to an array of sings few would admit to knowing the words of when sober at the first party.
Adam was more than drunk by the time guests arrived at his party, and being the nice guy that I am, I let other people take inordinate amounts of my liquor before I myself was granted any, so Mike was drunk without me by the end. This left a second, dissident group within the Schrader household which ultimately resolved in a trip to Ender’s to get high, the humor isn’t in getting high, but rather that none of us were willing to actually speak our exit, so we simply left a note and headed out.
Following this day I ended up spending the night at no-longer-a-stranger, Sabrina Ortiz’s house. I hit it off immediately with her and her friends and many jokes were had. I slept pantless with a topless Gabby and shirtless Noah, and the whole thing felt a little wrong. Sabrina and her gay friend (whose name I didn’t capture, but was enamored with none-the-less at the existence of a living, breathing homosexual in Rochester Hills) planned an unplanned excursion to New York, which became Chicago, which became Ontario, which became A Scary Bridge A Few Miles Away, which became Lets Not Go On A Fucking Trip At All. It was cute.
Finally my 4th of July was a wonderful hodgepodge. It was a costume party and I went as a neo-futurist-dandy-warrior. There were gay people at the party, but I was too scared to talk to any of them. I began to get drunk, but ended up getting high. Sad thing is, it might have been opium, or something a little harder than pot at least, because I was essentially destroyed for short intervals the rest of the night. Against better judgement I decided to party hop with Todd and quickly found myself alone on a couch stuck on thought-loops undeniable to the greatest of theoretical physicists. The couch was most certainly entirely enveloping my being, and I watched the party in slow-motion unfold before my passive eyes. I fell into sleep with no segue, and didn’t come down from that high till the following evening.
Now it is time for a break.
As a come-down gift to myself I beat Metal Gear Solid in one sitting, and really enjoyed the experience.
I don’t know what I’m doing with myself right now. I’m essentially worthless and I blame my past self for it. What the fuck, may I just ask? Why am I a 19 year old with no liscense? Why have I never been legally employed in my life? Why have I lived in fucking suburbia my entire life and leeched off my wonderful parents for so long?
I wish I could drive more than anyone, but I’m being money-concious, we’re not as rich as we seem, no one is, and I refuse to allow my parents to dip into retirement funds. I squandered my grad money on useless shit, video games, a cello, dozens of books and movies. I bought my text-books, given, but what the fuck am I even studying for anyways? My entire first year of college was mental masturbation and self-glorification. Linguistics is a nether-region, of which I’ve probably had my fill, so I’m off to the next unfulfilled major that catches my eye.
I can’t get a fucking job for the life of me, and I don’t want to make my parents spend more money buying me a car, and then hugely inflating their delightfully low insurance costs.
So this leaves me as an aimless nothing, I cannot, literally, cannot accomplish anything because the opportunities are just not there. I’m working through my backlog of video games, and when those are done, I’ll do books, and then I’ll get to finishing that novel of mine which is mostly a joke anyhow.
How can someone complain about such a hedonist existence? I am equally stumped, but here I am doing it.
I saw Trainspotting tonight with Sheena, Todd, and Jon, and it was so arousing. Sick-boy and Renton are like walking orgasms. That movie doesn’t really glorify hard-drugs, and yet they seem so romantic in retrospect. However, I’m a crack-baby/failed abortion so those are probably a road I’ll not take.
I've noticed that I talk about being gay a lot in these journals, I swear, I sound like an honest-to-god fag, don't let it alienate you, I'm sure I'll do that on my own accord when the time comes.
I’ve been searching for a lot of really good story opportunities this summer, and I’m not sure if I found them or not, but I feel vapid and unusable. This is not to say that I am not also often euphoric or mindlessly enjoying whatever I’ve gotten myself into, just a statement on the facts.
Meteos is really fucking amazing, I’m pretty good, but I don’t have the effort in me to perfect my game just now.
I'll have to pick up Kirby's Canvas Curse later, because that game is amazing.
Well, apathy is creeping up, so I’m cutting this short (that’s a laugh)
Love all of you, get me in strange situations if the opportunity arises, and I’ll love you forever.
I never clean this fucking room. I just let it stagnate till one day I’m trying to find [obscure object X] and the stress of looking for it gets so bad that I start to have a panic attack, which ultimately results in me either heading to the living room and falling asleep feebly on the couch, or picking out melodies on the piano with lots of repetitive complex chords until I’ve forgotten the strife of a middle-class worthless teenager with too many wordly possessions.
Once I hit that point, if I’m lucky, my mom will be on another one of her binges where the house is cleaned and remodeled a thousand times in 3 days. She’ll get those giant eyes, sickly globes finally completely emerged from the shells of a scorned house-maker, and she’ll tell me I’ve got one day to clean it up, or she’ll start throwing things away. It is this unfortunate time that allows me to fully muster the completely inadequate nihilism innate in the mind of anyone with an IQ above 110, and decide “material objects will rot and rust, and anything she would be willing to throw away can’t be something that dear to me”, so I’ll settle back down to the book I’m reading, or much more likely the game I’m playing (because god knows I’m not elite enough to be reading when this occurs), and a few days later I might come to the revelation that the [obscure object X] is probably residing on a friend’s shelf, or much much worse, on the shelf of a salvation army.
I’ve done a lot of doing lately. I say doing, because the thinking I’ve done lately doesn’t amount to much. I spent the entirety of last week getting fucked up beyond recognition repeatedly night after night, I spent 5 days in a row not sleeping in my bed (and much to my disdain not in someone else’s either). I got high for the first time, the first 4 times actually. I liked it/loved it/hated it/thought it was the best thing ever/thought it was over-rated/will never do it again/will probably do it again. I love the idea of becoming the shell of a man for some time. I know I’m probably letting a lot of people down with this news, but don’t worry, I don’t have the constitution to become a pot-head. I love you all the same, I haven’t changed yada yada yada.
Anyway, the debauchery was rather comforting. I rarely have a third-person perspective of myself, and this either clarified things for me, or intensified that difficulty, I’m not sure which. This is not in the least a sign of low self-esteem; rather I just have no idea what I am like in the eyes of others, whatsoever.
Gabby and Noah broke up, which is a shame. They were at least a moderately functional couple, and a huge portion of my summer was spent with those two. Far worse though is Gabby post-break-up. She propositioned me for sex no less than two times, and constantly, hesitantly nearly asked me out. Then finally, without vocal input on my part, came to her own conclusions and by her admission “shunned me for being gay”, which I do not hold against her in the least.
You see the stitch of it all is, by god, I would love to have sex with you Gabby, and I do not doubt that I would be capable of it, and would even probably enjoy it, but there is an intangible not-rightness to it. If there were ever a straight person secure enough in their own sexuality to admit that, despite the desire not existing, a homosexual encounter could be extremely mutually gratifying, they would understand me.
I should note, radically removing any flow that this entry had, that the parties I attended were all hilarious in their own ways. Everyone in the house was stripped down to their underwear and dancing and singing to an array of sings few would admit to knowing the words of when sober at the first party.
Adam was more than drunk by the time guests arrived at his party, and being the nice guy that I am, I let other people take inordinate amounts of my liquor before I myself was granted any, so Mike was drunk without me by the end. This left a second, dissident group within the Schrader household which ultimately resolved in a trip to Ender’s to get high, the humor isn’t in getting high, but rather that none of us were willing to actually speak our exit, so we simply left a note and headed out.
Following this day I ended up spending the night at no-longer-a-stranger, Sabrina Ortiz’s house. I hit it off immediately with her and her friends and many jokes were had. I slept pantless with a topless Gabby and shirtless Noah, and the whole thing felt a little wrong. Sabrina and her gay friend (whose name I didn’t capture, but was enamored with none-the-less at the existence of a living, breathing homosexual in Rochester Hills) planned an unplanned excursion to New York, which became Chicago, which became Ontario, which became A Scary Bridge A Few Miles Away, which became Lets Not Go On A Fucking Trip At All. It was cute.
Finally my 4th of July was a wonderful hodgepodge. It was a costume party and I went as a neo-futurist-dandy-warrior. There were gay people at the party, but I was too scared to talk to any of them. I began to get drunk, but ended up getting high. Sad thing is, it might have been opium, or something a little harder than pot at least, because I was essentially destroyed for short intervals the rest of the night. Against better judgement I decided to party hop with Todd and quickly found myself alone on a couch stuck on thought-loops undeniable to the greatest of theoretical physicists. The couch was most certainly entirely enveloping my being, and I watched the party in slow-motion unfold before my passive eyes. I fell into sleep with no segue, and didn’t come down from that high till the following evening.
Now it is time for a break.
As a come-down gift to myself I beat Metal Gear Solid in one sitting, and really enjoyed the experience.
I don’t know what I’m doing with myself right now. I’m essentially worthless and I blame my past self for it. What the fuck, may I just ask? Why am I a 19 year old with no liscense? Why have I never been legally employed in my life? Why have I lived in fucking suburbia my entire life and leeched off my wonderful parents for so long?
I wish I could drive more than anyone, but I’m being money-concious, we’re not as rich as we seem, no one is, and I refuse to allow my parents to dip into retirement funds. I squandered my grad money on useless shit, video games, a cello, dozens of books and movies. I bought my text-books, given, but what the fuck am I even studying for anyways? My entire first year of college was mental masturbation and self-glorification. Linguistics is a nether-region, of which I’ve probably had my fill, so I’m off to the next unfulfilled major that catches my eye.
I can’t get a fucking job for the life of me, and I don’t want to make my parents spend more money buying me a car, and then hugely inflating their delightfully low insurance costs.
So this leaves me as an aimless nothing, I cannot, literally, cannot accomplish anything because the opportunities are just not there. I’m working through my backlog of video games, and when those are done, I’ll do books, and then I’ll get to finishing that novel of mine which is mostly a joke anyhow.
How can someone complain about such a hedonist existence? I am equally stumped, but here I am doing it.
I saw Trainspotting tonight with Sheena, Todd, and Jon, and it was so arousing. Sick-boy and Renton are like walking orgasms. That movie doesn’t really glorify hard-drugs, and yet they seem so romantic in retrospect. However, I’m a crack-baby/failed abortion so those are probably a road I’ll not take.
I've noticed that I talk about being gay a lot in these journals, I swear, I sound like an honest-to-god fag, don't let it alienate you, I'm sure I'll do that on my own accord when the time comes.
I’ve been searching for a lot of really good story opportunities this summer, and I’m not sure if I found them or not, but I feel vapid and unusable. This is not to say that I am not also often euphoric or mindlessly enjoying whatever I’ve gotten myself into, just a statement on the facts.
Meteos is really fucking amazing, I’m pretty good, but I don’t have the effort in me to perfect my game just now.
I'll have to pick up Kirby's Canvas Curse later, because that game is amazing.
Well, apathy is creeping up, so I’m cutting this short (that’s a laugh)
Love all of you, get me in strange situations if the opportunity arises, and I’ll love you forever.