It always seems like I run here when I hit a big rut. I run here to explain to nobody, to explain to some now-occupied bytes in Google's servers, to explain how I'm doing. I spell out what's happening in my world for no one to understand. You could just say that it's a diary or a journal, but I write as if someone will read it. Nobody will read it.
I've been feeling completely uncomfortable with myself lately. I feel embarrassed to live inside my body.
Everything I want to achieve is either out of reach or too difficult for my weak will to bear.
I don't have a job. I dropped out in May and I still don't have a job. Everything is so unappealing. I hate that I have the luxury to do that. I'm in a perfect metastatic state of nothingness. I wish I had a difficult life. I wish I were poor. Sometimes I fantasize about leaving my house with a big coat and a backpack and being homeless. Maybe then I'd gain some sense of motivation to be something.
But I don't have that. I have desire, but no motivation.
Too many people couple things that are really close to each other, but are not the same thing. People say that if I want to be something, I should be motivated. I am not. I wish I were.
I strip it all down and decide that I'm warped in some fundamental way. Maybe it was all the praise as a kid for being intelligent. Maybe it's the fact that I learned not to ask for much, thereby never wanting much.
All three of my parental figures are negative influences on me. My stepdad is a fat moron who worked hard to get where he is. He's bitter and he's emotionally fucked up. My dad is a schemer, constantly having ideas that will propel him forward, but never following through with them. He gets tired of his women quickly and leaves them. He struggles to get work, probably due to lack of interest. At this point I'm pretty sure he just does odd jobs for friends and lives in a house owned by a friend who buys property. I haven't seen him in over a year. It doesn't affect me like it does most movie and TV children; I'm not sad about daddy not being there. I don't care. In fact, I'm just glad that our awkward interactions have been reduced to well-wishing on holidays and birthdays via text message. My mom is rebellious and ignorant. She's forgetful and desperate for conversation. She refuses to accept things that are written in stone. She makes me feel like shit every single day, constantly hinting at hurrying along with getting a job or going back to school. And worst of all, saying shit like "You have a brilliant mind." or "You're destined to do great things." or "You could be the president if you wanted to be.". I feel like if I could go one week without anybody saying anything to me, I would have to do something. Pestering me seems to reset the gauge.
I dislike myself and if I were another person, I wouldn't be friends with me. I embody so many annoying, negative qualities. And yet I feel entitled to friendships and interest in my life. Is that true? Do I have some sense of entitlement to that? Do I think that people must find me interesting? I don't think I'm interesting. But I think that some people are less interesting. I dislike myself.
I want to break out. I wish I could do what I said I was going to do and write movie scripts. I can't do it though. I can think of great ideas in the middle of the day, but then when I try to transform it into work, I shut down. I feel like if I could just have some weed and be able to smoke it somewhere without fear of capture, I could produce something. Weed is a splendid thing. With weed, my head is like the wheels on a slot machine, spinning and spinning and constantly inviting new thoughts to the forefront of my consciousness. Without it, my head is that same slot machine after being abandoned for fifty years, all fucked up and rusted out, and if you tried to pull the lever, the wheels might creak into a different position before completely giving up.
But weed is illegal and it costs money and I have to purchase it from people I don't know. I get a knot in my stomach if the possibility of smoking even remotely comes up. But once I go through with it, I love it. That feeling is amazing. The anxiety falls away. A large problem, though, is that the anxiety multiplies when I'm not in a safe place, which I never am. With smoking weed, safety comes in degrees. The only time I've ever experienced 100% safety is in Jake's living room with a vaporizer. The next level is on Jake's porch, which is about an 85% for me because there are neighbors and noisy co-smokers and cars driving past. This is where it happens the majority of the time, but it rarely happens anymore. Jake used to be a daily smoker. He ruined it for himself. One day, he had a panic attack while high and decided to give it up. It's so ridiculous to consider the fact that anybody will "quit" smoking weed. That quitting is something that they must do in order to get on with their lives. "Oh yeah, I used to smoke all the time and blow all my paychecks on it. I just had to give it up." Fuck you. You ruined it for yourself. I appreciate it so much because of how rarely I get to experience it. At the same time, 99% of the times I've experienced it have been so horribly incomplete. I'm wrapped up in the anxiety of it and can't even enjoy it entirely. I hate the idea of walking around my neighborhood at night, hoping a patrol cop with nothing else to do won't roll up. Yeah, that happened once, and through some kind of miracle nothing came of it. And I hate even more the idea of sitting in my backyard hoping a neighbor won't smell anything or hear me cough or that my mom won't come downstairs for a glass of water and wonder, since my bedroom and the living room are empty, where I am.
I wish I had my own place, but that requires money. I wish I could play music, but I have nobody who's interested.
I see people in bands and wonder how they found each other. I imagine that it's because they've always been friends, hung out together for years, and developed similar music tastes. It's impossible to start a band from scratch anymore, to find three or four other people from out in the world who want to play what you want to play. Because of the internet, the avenues are far too broad and nobody will ever see your Craigslist post or your message board post. I wish I were a part of the era where a flier was a viable method of forming a band-- a flier on the wall with little pull-off tabs with your phone number on it. I'm pretty sure that's how Explosions In The Sky got together.
I waste so much energy being mad at the world and myself. I've thought, logically, about killing myself, but I always conclude that it will eventually get better. I don't, however, have "suicidal thoughts". Those are for stupid people who think they're the center of their bleak universe. It will eventually get better. If, one day, I'm 35 and still dragging along like this, I think I'll kill myself. I won't make it private and painless though. I'll make it a big spectacle that will somehow change the world for the better. I'll do something for gay rights or marijuana legalization. I'll open people's eyes with a leap from the Sears Tower with a banner tied to me that says something vaguely thought-provoking. The media will eat it up and open the floor for a real discussion of the matter.
That is, if I really do go nowhere.
