Jesus or quantum mechanics
I am in over my head.
I am in over my head.
I feel like I am a reasonably interesting person
SO
WHY CAN’T I BE MORE LIKE DYLAN MORAN IN BLACK BOOKS.
HE’S ALLOWED TO ASK QUESTIONS AS SENTENCES.
WHY IS THIS SO HARD.
I even bothered to come up with a list of resolutions while I was in the shower:
1) watch more TV.
2) care less.
3) lose another ten pounds.
4) write all this tomfoolery down, even if I later regret what I have to say because it is permanent and cannot merely be erased with one keystroke like about a hundred of my posts before this. Physically write the fuck down and then don’t touch it. Don’t.
5) eat an entire bicycle’s worth of metal shavings.
I also had a loose idea of a plan about my post-collegiate life. Okay, getting married to a stranger in Europe didn’t really work out as planned so the next steps were pretty simple, you’d think. Dozens of my acquaintances have done it already.
a) find city job and
b) move there.
But after this weekend, do I honestly think I can do this? I do not.
Heeeeere’s Johnny why not:
+ To answer a question with a question: Is it because he’s there?
+ I will be expected to have friends who smoke up out on balconies and criticize the production processes used in the new Drake album.
+ I’ll have to pay foreigners to carry my mattress up 10 flights of stairs.
+ I’ll have to find roommates and pay rent and frequent laundromats.
+ Brooklyn is a place that feels negative. Not in the sense that it’s for the cynical or empty, but that I am going to bleed dry there and die.
+ I am scared.
Which is funny, considering what I’ve done so far, re: living in London twice, gallivanting up and down Bulgaria, doing something really stupid in Wales. Wait.
But I cried all the way home and sobbed my way through SoHo like a little baby. Why? I thought daylight would clarify but it did not. It’s like I’m being forced to choose between one life and another, except neither of them really want me in either direction and I can’t say either choice is a real life. I mean, really, these are first world problems. One life, I am entitled to in a familial sense. The other– well, fuck that. I have become bored and am going to go back to watching Black Books. HOWZAT FOR FUCKING UP TENSES.
Addendum:
While I don’t traditionally like Amanda Palmer and she tends to drag on a bit, I do like this. We have more in common than I would expect.
http://blog.amandapalmer.net/post/15120706154/the-wedding-blog
Conclusions? I am a sad fuck and I am not married to Neil Gaiman. Happy New Year.
Your eyes are green, your hair is gold;
Your hair is black, your eyes are blue.
I don’t have the energy to do all my annual year-end shit this time around.
I don’t have the energy for anything.
I could’ve exaggerated that, but there was 2011, folks.
May 2012 see us through without death and destruction or abuse and neglect.
Kate Gompert went to her office party and ended the evening crying into the lapels of someone who is a stranger and a dickhead in a parking garage.
What the fuck what the fuck whatthefuck
I am sitting on my bedroom floor, eating room temperature egg drop soup and rereading all of my travelblog posts from the past 2.5 years. Shit is unreal. Hey, remember when I used to write about things outside myself? Like, articles? The news? Even fleshlights was a topic apart from me (and still is.)
No proper segue exists to say this, other than I have uncovered a lot of sticky, cobwebby things inside myself recently and, for lack of any other containment, decide to share it here. To myself. And maybe one other person. Or maybe hundreds of people who were finally tired of 4chan and found this to be just as mindlessly disturbing.
Examine: The main way to live a contented life is to put yourself first in your own story.
1) I don’t know what love is. I am genuinely perplexed. It’s an abstract noun, but what the fuck.
2) I might be figuring it out with the wrong person at the wrong time, which led me to this: “How can someone, anyone, not love me?” Not in the sense of “What is there not to love?” but on a different indignant level. Possibly the most human question that’s ever occurred to me; I can’t or don’t want to think of an answer, because it really is inconceivable. Maybe most people feel that same about this in regards to themselves and it’s not just me thinking things like “DO I HAVE NO INFLUENCE ON YOU AT ALL? HOW ARE YOU NOT SWAYED BY MY VERY PRESENCE?”
3) When I am not being abused, I am the abuser.
4) The difficulty of distance, in the self or intra-relationships. No longer feel like elaborating on this but I don’t want to delete it because then I need to change the numbers.
5) Epilating is nothing short of masochism. I finally understand why my roommates used to epilate at unreasonable times, like 3am, because it’s truly an 11th-hour activity: grimacing, some tears, and maybe a little bit of praying.
6) Room temperature egg drop soup has negative appeal.
7) I can’t follow my own advice. “Changing your image and attitudes won’t bring him back into your bedroom.” Okay, so that was actually Ben Gibbard, but WHATEVER.
Listening to The Smiths and read every single travelblog post with tears streaming down my face. So good.
“Ask and you shall receive.”
…Or else you’ll find yourself driving the two hours home alone, with my hair and my coat and my mouth smelling like burnt gas station coffee, and you. I am stupid and angry.
I asked you to come with me but couldn’t ask if I could stay.
Seriously.
I am being punished by terse men and a toothache from hell.
I’m not longer the new kid at the office! We have a new employee!
Of course everyone is swarming over him because he’s fresh blood, but I am generally disinterested.
As if my wont.
While it’s no obligation of mine, I’m here to inform you that the past months of angsty and pining blogs are results of disinterest directed at me, if one can direct disinterest. I wouldn’t put it past him to find a way to do it. I feel like that shitty Greek myth where that crazed bitch is being chased by some guy who wants to rape her, and then she asks a god to turn her into a tree because she either doesn’t feel like running anymore or else she’s trying to avoid being raped by aforementioned guy. Details are irrelevant (why the fuck a tree?); take that, and reverse it. With his wealth and power, he could probably turn me into a dog with the amount of yapping I tend to do.
It’s new.
It’s bullshit.
My friend since kindergarten says I deserve it.
So that leaves me blogging at my kitchen table on a Monday afternoon, listening to an ex-boyfriend’s band for idiomatic shits and giggles. And to provide a hilarious counterpoint of a backdrop to my thoughts on my impending Vegas vacation. (Ten days left.)
“’cause you’re as close-to-perfect
as a close-to-perfect person can be [...]
when I feel like I’m hopelessly wandering in Tokyo,
I will call you,
and you can be my Scarlett, my foil.”
//////
“and all I can think about is letting out a perfect sound
and all I can talk about is indie rock and roundabouts
and all I can do is sit around, mope about, and listen to braid
what a place you made.”
YEP. Let me brush off my shoulder a little bit, god damn it.
My blood pressure is up and this was futile to boot. It only makes me feel like a child.
Well. This is new.
Down in the valley where the fields are green,
Watch my luck turn fro and to–
Pluck every last daisy clean ’til
Only I may love you.
