Slimeball

I'll try again. Try something new, slimeball.

With Providence only 10 days away, a few words come to mind: excitement, anxiety, optimism, fear... I have my boxes packed and my head cleared, a-ok on the apartment and a U-haul, a probable job opportunity; what more is there? Still, it seems like something is missing, and I'm not quite sure what it could be.

I've been reflecting on my life for the past seven months, trying to piece together what exactly just happened. I know that there was a point where I had hit bottom, maybe a few. There were times when I was somebody else and when really living was too much to handle. There is a thin line between spiritually aware and mentally insane. I worry a lot about just losing it, of course gradually, and not being able to see truth again-- to see what is real. Whatever "real" means. Real is subjective. Reality, that is.

Family gatherings always give me a glimpse at generations of insanity, repeated. It all scares me half to death, when I think about it. Thinking that life really can get so unmanagable that we conjure these phantom needs (sex, money, food, drugs, social acceptance and lack thereof) in extreme ways. I don't know why I'm so afraid. I know that anyone could be diagnosed with some disorder or other, and that even though some facets of life are out of my control--life is mostly predictable and I decide what I am going to do and who I am going to become. I know all of these things but the thought of being homeless and strung out, forgetting who and where I am, why I am....why I would ever do that to myself.... it has to be a lack of security within.

Why do I analyze myself so much?


I hope that in Providence life continues. It will, but I'm saying... I hope that I don't hit the ground face first. Hope that I can keep it together. I've moved so much that it should seem like second nature, but it really is just the opposite. I'm so sick of moving, and at the same time, I can't see my life any other way. I already know that I'm a nomad and nothing is going to change that. I almost wish that it would just get exhausting and that I could actually see myself staying in Providence for the rest of my life. Or even a chunk of my life, which also seems unlikely. I know that I shouldn't think so far ahead.

Ugh.


This whole entry is littered with stress. I'm not stressed out about Providence; that is cake. I'm thinking: What can I do (in Providence or elsewhere) that will help me to be more secure as a person? What can I do so that I don't get so paranoid about becoming crazy or a drug addict or ending up cold and alone with no place to sleep? Wasn't that the point of college? It all cycles back around to my wondering if four years of debt is even worth the things that could come of it. Which comes back to wondering what I'm going to do in this world to earn a living and still manage to retain some creativity and to help people. And that in turn makes me impatient. Impatience takes away all of my self-respect (hasty decisions) and turns me into exactly what I don't want to be: a crazy, cold drug addict with no place to sleep.

I don't know why I don't want to be that, but I'd suppose that the Family gathering had something to do with it. They've all been there, done that. Try something new, slimeball.


Something will come around, I just know it. Providence seems like it is the right thing to do and really I just hope that it works out for Us.

disregard my previous post:



I am well, the things that are happening are beginning to make sense again and I'm sure they will continue to for my life as well as all of yours.

fuck you, Julia: the fish: dead: the chair: broken

it could be my period, or the fact that I got off of work from my longest slowest day half an hour ago.


it could be, that might be the reason that I feel so lonely and listening to alison talk about her boyfriend all day didn't help. it could be the reason that I can't complete a fucking sentence and I just feel like crying because , like everyone else I am: wanting someone to love them for who they are.


I get sick inside every time I think of all of these pretty girls who are really ugly inside and everyone wants them and everyone wants to be with them and yeah: that's life, right? well, I'm bitching about how life isn't fair again. I know. Nonetheless; the fish are dead and the chair is broken. I'm sick of these beauty queens and how the people I love are always in love with beauty queens and even if they love me it isn't going to make me pretty and perfect and skinny. It isn't going to make me them, and they'll always compare it because

fuck.



I'm not saying what I'm thinking about because it is too much deeply seeded shit that I should deal with but can't.

You know those things?


You just can't deal with it.

It's not that you don't know how, because you do. But you don't want to. You do want to but wanting to is not enough to actually deal with the thing.



And that's this.






I hate it that every time a man sings a song about loving a woman he talks about what she looks like.

(lonely) Automotive Repair Manuals ex-mass

I'm very tired right now but I was nervous and I was just typing about this to somebody. I had a dream last night that I met Bukowski on a beach and gave him a pork chop (the same one I ate for dinner last night) that was wrapped in gift wrap. I had a dream the night before about a house where I was searching for michael and there were all of these people sleeping in beds, people I knew, ex boyfriends mostly and I kept waking them up and it was the same four rooms over and over again and I kept looking for him but I knew that he wasn't there. At the beginning of the dream we were together then I think I watched him escape through the ceiling and that was how I knew. His body was strange like the idealistic body I have in my mind, only with fleshy pectorals. He is always this iridescent salmon-orange in my dreams.

Maybe I've been smoking too much pot lately.

People, in general, are ugly.

It is really absurd how everyone in Hollywood gets the funding to put out these miraculously stupid books but a writer that actually has something to say can't even get his work out there. It isn't really absurd, it's life; I'm just saying, I just skimmed through this book by Macaulay Culkin who I always loved. From Home Alone to my first vibrator. This stupid fuck got published though? It makes no sense and I have half a mind to burn the book or lift it so no one can read it.

But I won't do that.



I'm turning into Bukowski.