I have been feeling depressed lately and I think I know why. There's so much going on in my life that I have no control over and I don't feel that I have anybody to talk to. Casey's really the only person but I'm too intent on being a good listener that I don't feel I can truly unleash my issues.
So I'm writing to you, Stella, because you're closing soon and this will probably be my last post.
After my shift on Tuesday, I don't know if I'll have a job. That's a scary thought for a few reasons. First of all, the next job I get probably won't allow for the amount of flexibility I have enjoyed throughout my tenure at the coffee shop. I have essentially been asked to reapply for my job as Stella will become Ellipsis in late March and the new owners don't know me. Secondly, I will have no source of income for at least a few weeks. This is distressing because I'm in school full time and I can't commit to any kind of solid schedule that I assume most jobs will ask of me.
My dad has been paying for my school and helping with my rent and living expenses, but he recently broke a few pieces of his spine and is practically incapacitated. More incapacitated, that is, than he was prior to his injury when his depression, age, and general lack of mobility had left him pretty much secluded in his apartment. I thought I had trouble dealing with that, and now it's even worse. I shouldn't complain about my father because he loves me and works his ass off to try to facilitate the beginning of my adult life. On the other hand, though, our relationship consists of me visiting him in his apartment, occasionally for dinner. He smokes cigarettes and watches biased conservative news programs that make him frustrated with the world. Because the news panders to his preconceived notions of the world, I imagine he watches it to reaffirm his beliefs.
He doesn't seem to understand the correlation between input and output. This is evident in many aspect of his life. He watches news programs that upset him because they point out how poorly run the American government is. Because he agrees with what's being said, he gets frustrated. Because his main source of input about the world is frustrating, he doesn't seem to think he can be happy. Maybe that's an inference I've made heavy-handedly but I don't know how else to explain what I see. Essentially, what he takes in doesn't allow him to get out of his depression.
Another input he doesn't understand is diet. His bones are weak because he doesn't eat a balanced diet, nor does he exercise. Though not substantially, he's overweight. He also lacks vitamin D, and I'm assuming he's deficient of many other vitamins and minerals. He's been eating better lately, but only relatively better. For instance, chicken wings are a staple on his dinner menu. While I personally am opposed to eating meat, I understand that chicken is lean and not necessarily bad for one's health. However, a dinner that solely consists of chicken wings and barbeque or buffalo sauce on a regular basis--while making one feel full--will not properly nourish a person. His malnourishment, thus, is another aid to his thriving depression.
Further, his exercise consists of a few laps around his small studio apartment on a daily basis. Because he's poorly nourished and doesn't exercise, he's weak and tired.
Though he's weak and tired, he can't sleep because of his intake of caffeine, sugar, and cigarettes. This causes him some form of insomnia (or, perhaps more accurately, simply a difficulty with sleeping). He doesn't sleep more than five hours a night but he naps several times a day. Not getting enough sleep contributes to his depression, weakness, and general malaise.
I could probably go on, but that might belabor the point. The point being that I don't know what to do. I can keep him company by stopping by a few times a week and soothing his loneliness, but it's emotionally difficult for me to see my father in this condition. He's not helping himself and that is very frustrating. My trips to his place are taken in hesitation, my visits are lived through anxiously, and my departures leave me deeply saddened and disturbed.
My mother, on the other hand, does everything she can to help herself: her diet is excellent, she practices yoga several times a week, and her life is more than just work. She volunteers as a "Saint," which means she ushers at operas and stage plays in order for free admission. She socializes and has a few good friends, which my father does not do and does no have.
However, her business is not going well. She's struggling financially. She's done a tremendous job in the past of pulling herself out of ruts and achieving financial stability, but that was before her fiancee died. While she's still a very strong person, she has been through (and is still dealing with) profoundly devastating circumstances.
I have a girlfriend and we don't know how to communicate. Neither of us have been happy for some time now and it can't go on. While cognitively or intellectually I feel that I should try to fix things, I don't see that as an option. I feel that there's some unrecognizable energy between two people when they are able to communicate well. I don't think it is something that can be faked, nor do I think it's a light switch that can be turned on in a situation such as this.
Creatively, my output this semester has been sub-par, particularly by my own standards. Prior to last night, I took two or three weeks off of cigarettes, and I still haven't had a cup of coffee in a few weeks. That leaves me feeling physically and emotionally well, but it hampers my creativity, as well as my general production. My grades (mostly in my Shakespeare class) are suffering and will continue to until I can right myself. I don't think that I necessarily need coffee or cigarettes to do well, only that it isn't ideal to make such a drastic change in the middle of a semester.
I don't feel close to my family or friends. This is due in part to the fact that my girlfriend has a job that has her in New York during the week. While that may seem ideal as far as doing well in school and being productive during the week, it means that my weekends are primarily spent with her. I don't blame her, necessarily, but I do blame the circumstances. It makes every weekend feel like there's not enough time and every second should be spent in her presence. While I don't really feel like I should see her so much, I do anyways because it's important to try to keep my girlfriend happy (which I'm failing to do, anyways).
I have tried to make some steps in the right direction. I will continue to try, too. I'm compromising, maybe. Or conforming, if you want to be a dick about it. Like Shooter McGavin said in SLC Punk, "I didn't sell out; I bought in." I think that's what I'm starting to do. I now shower and wash my hair daily with body wash, shampoo, and conditioner. I brush my teeth with toothpaste instead of baking soda and tea tree oil. I try to shave every other day so as not to look unkempt. I make sure my clothes aren't worn too often because there's a possibility that they're dirtier than I may think. I've been trying to exercise a few times a week, even if it's a simple routine of push-ups and leg-lifts and other exercises that can be done in my living room. I meant to go on a run yesterday--which would have been my second in two weeks--but the snow scared me off. I haven't been drinking much lately, but I have been trying to go out enough to keep my friends interested in me. I've been trying to keep my room and apartment clean so I don't feel like I'm living in a dumpster.
Soon I may become a social omnivore because I'm starting to see that it can be very isolating to impose my vegan diet on other people's events. Also, without much money, I shouldn't be as picky about what I eat. If there's free pizza after an event at school, I should eat it and socialize instead of going home.
This is all very difficult for me, though. I don't feel that I can talk to my family because they have issues of their own, probably exponentially more troublesome than my own. My friends like to congregate to celebrate the good instead of dwelling on the bad. They provide a good escape but that isn't always enough. Occasionally I'm tempted to call someone I haven't spoken to in a while, but that's not a good idea because if it's a friend then it's not fair that I call out of the blue to drop all my feelings on them.
I don't know what I should do, but it did help to write all of this out. Unfortunately, doing so only provides a brief respite from my sorrow instead of any solution.
Goodnight, Stella.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Monday, September 24, 2012
A Nap on the Train
It's a warm feeling, when you give in to the exhaustion of being awake at the ungodly hour of 7:30 AM. For me, it's usually on the rug in the bathroom, sneaking a quick two-minute nap while the shower warms up-- two square-feet of plush, in such a circumstance, is comparable to any queen-sized bed I have ever shared.
The next short nap is taken standing up, under the shower head-- the warm water act as a blanket in a particularly engulfing waterbed.
The third nap is the most dangerous, in regard to timeliness. This one is taken on the blue line, immediately after transferring from the red line. I take the window seat, next to the rotund man who sat on the end seat in order to block the window seat from occupation. While his value system places personal space near the top, his stained sweatpants clarify that, within said space, there are no standards.
I initially noticed this man on my very first train ride to high school, freshman year. Every ride since has included his doppelganger of habit and style. I combat his petty gesture of self-entitlement with an, "excuse me, is anyone sitting there?," to which he begrudgingly turns his legs to the aisle, creating a tight but soft walkway. As I stumble through to my seat I imagine a red carpet under my feet-- a "thank you" from society for challenging this man's absurd degree of self-importance.
This particular train ride and nap begin like any other-- the third in a trilogy of post-sleep, pre-workday naps to satiate the exhaustion that comes with a bleak outlook on a, say, Tuesday morning. As I doze off, my posture begins the slow fold forward that culminates in a top-of-the-roller-coaster-like feeling. I jerk forward, startled, then allow my eyelids to close again. This ostensibly occurs because somewhere deep in my subconscious is a very slight aspect of my personality that is responsible and cares that I make it to work on-time. Were this not the case, I would sleep through my stop on a daily basis (provided I had even made it out of bed in the first place. And, if we're going to extremes, the question of whether or not I would still be employed must be asked). The whole process of lurching forward, waking up startled, and settling back into a transitory slumber exists on a loop until, ideally, I come-to by the sound of the conductor calling my stop.
"This is Racine... watch your step... doors closing!" the conductor yells every morning, though perhaps he forgot to on this particular morning. I drift in, then out, then back in again, occasionally catching the names of stops I recognize only as "not mine." I faintly notice the rumble of the wheels on the tracks grow louder, as if echoing in a tunnel that my route doesn't take me through. My eyelids illuminate my closed eyes singularly by means of unnatural light. "Such bizarre circumstances can only mean I'm dreaming!" I dream, unaware that my few responsible cells are trying to alert me of my irresponsibility.
I finally awake to a sun that's higher in the sky than it should be. For a second I blame the changing seasons, then I notice, on an imaginary table in front of me: crow. I stare in awe at such a proverbial monstrosity, ripe and ready to be eaten. My personal humiliation is furthered by my inability to move from my seat. The man sitting next to me has a slight grin on his face, as if he has scored some substantial victory in a battle that I had initiated.
The next short nap is taken standing up, under the shower head-- the warm water act as a blanket in a particularly engulfing waterbed.
The third nap is the most dangerous, in regard to timeliness. This one is taken on the blue line, immediately after transferring from the red line. I take the window seat, next to the rotund man who sat on the end seat in order to block the window seat from occupation. While his value system places personal space near the top, his stained sweatpants clarify that, within said space, there are no standards.
I initially noticed this man on my very first train ride to high school, freshman year. Every ride since has included his doppelganger of habit and style. I combat his petty gesture of self-entitlement with an, "excuse me, is anyone sitting there?," to which he begrudgingly turns his legs to the aisle, creating a tight but soft walkway. As I stumble through to my seat I imagine a red carpet under my feet-- a "thank you" from society for challenging this man's absurd degree of self-importance.
This particular train ride and nap begin like any other-- the third in a trilogy of post-sleep, pre-workday naps to satiate the exhaustion that comes with a bleak outlook on a, say, Tuesday morning. As I doze off, my posture begins the slow fold forward that culminates in a top-of-the-roller-coaster-like feeling. I jerk forward, startled, then allow my eyelids to close again. This ostensibly occurs because somewhere deep in my subconscious is a very slight aspect of my personality that is responsible and cares that I make it to work on-time. Were this not the case, I would sleep through my stop on a daily basis (provided I had even made it out of bed in the first place. And, if we're going to extremes, the question of whether or not I would still be employed must be asked). The whole process of lurching forward, waking up startled, and settling back into a transitory slumber exists on a loop until, ideally, I come-to by the sound of the conductor calling my stop.
"This is Racine... watch your step... doors closing!" the conductor yells every morning, though perhaps he forgot to on this particular morning. I drift in, then out, then back in again, occasionally catching the names of stops I recognize only as "not mine." I faintly notice the rumble of the wheels on the tracks grow louder, as if echoing in a tunnel that my route doesn't take me through. My eyelids illuminate my closed eyes singularly by means of unnatural light. "Such bizarre circumstances can only mean I'm dreaming!" I dream, unaware that my few responsible cells are trying to alert me of my irresponsibility.
I finally awake to a sun that's higher in the sky than it should be. For a second I blame the changing seasons, then I notice, on an imaginary table in front of me: crow. I stare in awe at such a proverbial monstrosity, ripe and ready to be eaten. My personal humiliation is furthered by my inability to move from my seat. The man sitting next to me has a slight grin on his face, as if he has scored some substantial victory in a battle that I had initiated.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
My general feelings swing between two fairly extreme mindsets. No, that's necessarily right. How about this: if my outlook was one of those swinging-balls-on-a-pendulum things that are featured in physics class, it would be the balls suspended in the middle. It would be jarred and rattled by the two extremes: a good old-fashioned positive mental outlook that optimistically views myself as a protagonist in a horrible world whose job is to better himself and, by proxy, those around him; the other extreme is a general feeling that I'm only hanging around this world as a favor to the one's I appreciate for being in my life, like I wouldn't want to burden anyone with the aftermath of a consensual ending. And isn't that messed up? I mean, the Christian bible says that suicide is, like, a deadly sin, right? Like you're not permitted into heaven and you're generally shunned by the afterworld. That's good and well, but not everyone's a Christian. Here's what's messed up: that idea has been so assimilated into western culture that even non-Christians hold that perception. The implications stretch to suffering, and whether or not Dr. Kevorkian is an asshole. I mean, isn't the profundity of a long stretch of general malaise enough to be considered suffering? And is it anybody else's business what choices I make?
On the other end of the ball-game-thing,
On the other end of the ball-game-thing,
Monday, September 10, 2012
Where were you last night?
I awoke this morning to the hall lights burning-- tired and hot to the touch, laboring unrecognizably in the sun's sharp rays.
Your door was still open and the dog still had to pee. I let her in the backyard and turned down the switches, relieving the house of her duties since you didn't permit her to sleep.
The phone, on the other hand, was unrattled through the bright and silent night: no "goodnight"s or "I'll be home late"s or "don't wait up"s-- not even your four-AM friends voicing their pleas to an unanswering machine.
But I'm back in the kitchen as the eggs in the skillet sizzle and quiver. You linger on the third step as your friends are watching and waiting, but they drive away when you wave them to. Did you think you were just tired? Are your friends to blame? Would you have left a friend who couldn't make it up five steps and into his own home?
The toaster pops my mind back into focus and your presence is merely dulled, like sunlight by the thin veil of a lingering cumulus cloud that will never pass.
Your door was still open and the dog still had to pee. I let her in the backyard and turned down the switches, relieving the house of her duties since you didn't permit her to sleep.
The phone, on the other hand, was unrattled through the bright and silent night: no "goodnight"s or "I'll be home late"s or "don't wait up"s-- not even your four-AM friends voicing their pleas to an unanswering machine.
But I'm back in the kitchen as the eggs in the skillet sizzle and quiver. You linger on the third step as your friends are watching and waiting, but they drive away when you wave them to. Did you think you were just tired? Are your friends to blame? Would you have left a friend who couldn't make it up five steps and into his own home?
The toaster pops my mind back into focus and your presence is merely dulled, like sunlight by the thin veil of a lingering cumulus cloud that will never pass.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Post title
I feel all cooped up, probably because I haven't been riding my bike over the past two days-- yesterday I was late for work so I had to drive and today is a hundred degrees of heat and after work is a Council meeting.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
I'm Never Lonesome When I'm By Myself
My heart and soul have packed their bags and moved to Montreal while my head is agitated, my nerves are frayed, and my mind is torn. Residue from September is to blame for the state of my brain while an anonymous letter left in Stella is responsible for the province where my heart and soul presently reside. As the wiring upstairs is still essentially illiterate to the workings of French, and my financial statement still fits on a one-ply index card, my physical presence will remain in the biggest city in the most middle western part of this country that has nothing left to offer me.
My circumstances are reminiscent of that scandal in Bohemia, though not all the details align cleanly.
This is why I don't take relationships very seriously. Just kidding-- nothing so complex has such a simple answer.
By the way, I'm still learning and figuring out what exactly I'm looking for. Last night, my mother divulged some details that, it seems, I am now old enough to comprehend. Things that attempt to answer for my existence, for instance, and other things that have the potential to teach me how to avoid making such mistakes in my own life.
I need to grow. That's it. And I need to keep moving. This particular part of this particular country is not a very good environment for me. Maybe it's everywhere that kids my age are preoccupied with drinking, but there have to other people like me. I mean, drinking is fun, but I've been there. I know what happens when I drink too much or just enough and I no longer find it fascinating. Furthermore, I'm not into distinguishing the subtleties between beers because I find it all excruciatingly boring and irrelevant.
Summer school starts on Friday and I couldn't be more excited.
What else..?
Immediate To Do list:
-Keep Saving (though my savings are, currently, pretty minimal).
-Keep reducing consumption of everything (except food). Biking instead of driving is definitely a good step, as is not smoking and drinking minimally. Reading the books I have should also go a long way instead of buying new books. I also have a library card that should start seeing some use. Drinking lots of water and buying oatmeal in bulk are also good steps.
-Learn French: to avoid allowing this current infatuation (which has, as of last night, begun creeping into my nightly dreams) to fall by the wayside, I need to be active; I will start watching French films, reading Candide in Voltaire's own words, learning Morphee by Moxy Fruvous, and, by the time Hnak gets back from Wyoming, start trying to hold conversations with him.
-Explore other college options (particularly in Montreal).
Eventual To-Do List:
-Sell my car: I'll need the money if I'm ever going to leave the country. Also, I shouldn't be spending money on gas and city stickers, and my dad shouldn't be paying for my insurance anymore.
-Sell more records: they'll lose value with the neglect I reserve especially for them. They're currently sitting in Emma and Casey's apartment, which is probably very, very hot.
To make this even more of an amalgamation of random thoughts, here are more:
Recently I've read:
After Dachau by Daniel Quinn - "No one cares."-- Danny would like this ending as it leaves the reader to take and apply the ideas without misleading said reader to think it will have any impact on the world. Good way for Mr. Quinn to cover his tracks.
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel - Pi told Richard Parker (the tiger) that one of the first things he would eat upon safely reaching shore would be Coconut Yam Kootu. Erika and I attempted that dish last night and it didn't turn out well. Without a food processor it wasn't possible to add about half of the recommended spices. Also, we used tapioca instead of plantains.
The Sunset Limited by Cormac McCarthy - Seems to have been adapted word-for-word by Tommy Lee Jones and Samuel L. Jackson. This play reaffirms lots of beliefs that I am currently trying to rise above. I credit Viktor E. Frankl for allowing me to take this dialogue with a proverbial grain of thought and without applying such hopelessness and meaninglessness to my own life.
Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. - This book was entertaining. I'm waiting for the movie to come in the mail more as a formality than an expression of the enthusiasm I had while reading the book. Vonnegut is humorous but I may have appreciated this more as a teenager.
Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.
My circumstances are reminiscent of that scandal in Bohemia, though not all the details align cleanly.
This is why I don't take relationships very seriously. Just kidding-- nothing so complex has such a simple answer.
By the way, I'm still learning and figuring out what exactly I'm looking for. Last night, my mother divulged some details that, it seems, I am now old enough to comprehend. Things that attempt to answer for my existence, for instance, and other things that have the potential to teach me how to avoid making such mistakes in my own life.
I need to grow. That's it. And I need to keep moving. This particular part of this particular country is not a very good environment for me. Maybe it's everywhere that kids my age are preoccupied with drinking, but there have to other people like me. I mean, drinking is fun, but I've been there. I know what happens when I drink too much or just enough and I no longer find it fascinating. Furthermore, I'm not into distinguishing the subtleties between beers because I find it all excruciatingly boring and irrelevant.
Summer school starts on Friday and I couldn't be more excited.
What else..?
Immediate To Do list:
-Keep Saving (though my savings are, currently, pretty minimal).
-Keep reducing consumption of everything (except food). Biking instead of driving is definitely a good step, as is not smoking and drinking minimally. Reading the books I have should also go a long way instead of buying new books. I also have a library card that should start seeing some use. Drinking lots of water and buying oatmeal in bulk are also good steps.
-Learn French: to avoid allowing this current infatuation (which has, as of last night, begun creeping into my nightly dreams) to fall by the wayside, I need to be active; I will start watching French films, reading Candide in Voltaire's own words, learning Morphee by Moxy Fruvous, and, by the time Hnak gets back from Wyoming, start trying to hold conversations with him.
-Explore other college options (particularly in Montreal).
Eventual To-Do List:
-Sell my car: I'll need the money if I'm ever going to leave the country. Also, I shouldn't be spending money on gas and city stickers, and my dad shouldn't be paying for my insurance anymore.
-Sell more records: they'll lose value with the neglect I reserve especially for them. They're currently sitting in Emma and Casey's apartment, which is probably very, very hot.
To make this even more of an amalgamation of random thoughts, here are more:
Recently I've read:
After Dachau by Daniel Quinn - "No one cares."-- Danny would like this ending as it leaves the reader to take and apply the ideas without misleading said reader to think it will have any impact on the world. Good way for Mr. Quinn to cover his tracks.
The Life of Pi by Yann Martel - Pi told Richard Parker (the tiger) that one of the first things he would eat upon safely reaching shore would be Coconut Yam Kootu. Erika and I attempted that dish last night and it didn't turn out well. Without a food processor it wasn't possible to add about half of the recommended spices. Also, we used tapioca instead of plantains.
The Sunset Limited by Cormac McCarthy - Seems to have been adapted word-for-word by Tommy Lee Jones and Samuel L. Jackson. This play reaffirms lots of beliefs that I am currently trying to rise above. I credit Viktor E. Frankl for allowing me to take this dialogue with a proverbial grain of thought and without applying such hopelessness and meaninglessness to my own life.
Breakfast of Champions by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. - This book was entertaining. I'm waiting for the movie to come in the mail more as a formality than an expression of the enthusiasm I had while reading the book. Vonnegut is humorous but I may have appreciated this more as a teenager.
Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Your Little Ampersand
Last night I wrote a poem about sitting in a coffee shop that doesn't exist. It was brief, I don't like the ending, and writing it took the last of my pen's ink. Until I get a new one, I will be writing here.
Tonight is an abbreviated meeting with The Council because Kevin got a job and has work early tomorrow morning, and I'm going to see the Avengers at midnight with Dick, Steve Ryan, and Danny Cao. I'm especially excited to see the new trailer for the Dark Knight Rises, which is a terrible way to justify spending $11 on a movie.
Tomorrow is some kind of a poetry reading over at Stella. I may attend, unless I decide to play basketball with Dave or watch the Bulls game. Saturday will probably consist of watching a Serbian movie (which Ian described to Kevin with a word that I don't remember, other than that it was synonymous with "traumatizing"... Actually, maybe it was "traumatizing")
I've been pretty out-of-it all day today and I'm not sure why. It could be the heat and the humidity that should be washed away by a storm tonight. Or maybe because I didn't feed my body soon enough after exercising this morning (there was a good two hour window). I could have contracted a cold from Will, who always seems to be sick.
What else do people talk about? Uh... kiwi skins, those are tasty. Oh, I washed my face with coffee grounds this morning and it was refreshing. Basically, I took moist, used grounds and put them on my face and let it stay there for about 15 minutes. I looked like a monster, or a 24 year old with a face covered in coffee grounds. What else? It's been about a week and a half since I've washed my hair. That's nothing compared to the three months I did before I got my haircut. Well, actually before Erika wanted to say she was the one who washed it, so she did the day before I had it cut.
I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like that line is on every page of writing I've ever written. There are constant reminders, though. Like now: I want to do this two week intensive creative writing program at Northeastern over the summer... for what? I'm not the least creative person I know, but I'm not far above run-of-the-mill. So what's the point? Well, to answer my own question, I'd say the point is to do something that I like. Kevin told me to get a finance degree so I can make some money. Hell no. I'll use that definitive answer as motivation against walking down a ridiculous career path that will insure my bank account and allow me to buy a few cool things while I hate my life.
I should try to bring things into focus, though. Like, will I ever be a musician? Playing with other people has taught me a few things: I'm better at creating when I'm by myself; I'm much lazier when I'm by myself; playing music is fun. The first two cancel each other out, leaving a self-indulgent, self-gratifying denominator. Writing comes much more naturally because it can only be done alone. The problem is that I feel the most comfortable writing at night, which is in direct conflict with having a girlfriend. As I spend lots of nights with her, my nights alone are spent trying to do as much as possible that I'd normally miss out on. I suppose the only remedy is to learn how to enjoy writing at, say 8 at night. Or at 2 in the afternoon. Or 9 in the morning.
I think people are only supposed to love once per lifetime. Unless there's a trick to evicting these memories from my head.
Tonight is an abbreviated meeting with The Council because Kevin got a job and has work early tomorrow morning, and I'm going to see the Avengers at midnight with Dick, Steve Ryan, and Danny Cao. I'm especially excited to see the new trailer for the Dark Knight Rises, which is a terrible way to justify spending $11 on a movie.
Tomorrow is some kind of a poetry reading over at Stella. I may attend, unless I decide to play basketball with Dave or watch the Bulls game. Saturday will probably consist of watching a Serbian movie (which Ian described to Kevin with a word that I don't remember, other than that it was synonymous with "traumatizing"... Actually, maybe it was "traumatizing")
I've been pretty out-of-it all day today and I'm not sure why. It could be the heat and the humidity that should be washed away by a storm tonight. Or maybe because I didn't feed my body soon enough after exercising this morning (there was a good two hour window). I could have contracted a cold from Will, who always seems to be sick.
What else do people talk about? Uh... kiwi skins, those are tasty. Oh, I washed my face with coffee grounds this morning and it was refreshing. Basically, I took moist, used grounds and put them on my face and let it stay there for about 15 minutes. I looked like a monster, or a 24 year old with a face covered in coffee grounds. What else? It's been about a week and a half since I've washed my hair. That's nothing compared to the three months I did before I got my haircut. Well, actually before Erika wanted to say she was the one who washed it, so she did the day before I had it cut.
I don't know what I'm doing with my life. I feel like that line is on every page of writing I've ever written. There are constant reminders, though. Like now: I want to do this two week intensive creative writing program at Northeastern over the summer... for what? I'm not the least creative person I know, but I'm not far above run-of-the-mill. So what's the point? Well, to answer my own question, I'd say the point is to do something that I like. Kevin told me to get a finance degree so I can make some money. Hell no. I'll use that definitive answer as motivation against walking down a ridiculous career path that will insure my bank account and allow me to buy a few cool things while I hate my life.
I should try to bring things into focus, though. Like, will I ever be a musician? Playing with other people has taught me a few things: I'm better at creating when I'm by myself; I'm much lazier when I'm by myself; playing music is fun. The first two cancel each other out, leaving a self-indulgent, self-gratifying denominator. Writing comes much more naturally because it can only be done alone. The problem is that I feel the most comfortable writing at night, which is in direct conflict with having a girlfriend. As I spend lots of nights with her, my nights alone are spent trying to do as much as possible that I'd normally miss out on. I suppose the only remedy is to learn how to enjoy writing at, say 8 at night. Or at 2 in the afternoon. Or 9 in the morning.
I think people are only supposed to love once per lifetime. Unless there's a trick to evicting these memories from my head.
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