One paper done and submitted. One left to go, due tomorrow. (but I have a tour tomorrow night so I have to finish it before that) And this one is for my super annoying picky as fuck professor who likes to give me shit and fuck with my grades over tiny little formatting errors, while simultaneously praising my mastery of the material. *sarcastic thumbs up emoji* So I’m sort of more nervous about this one than I was about the longer one because basically this paper is prrrobably going to decide whether I get an A or B in the class. That shit makes me nervous. I have a lot of feelings. Like… dude. Feelings all up in this fucking piece. The skin around my eyes feels sore and raw. It’s very distracting when your brain plays worst case scenarios on an endless loop in the background of all of your thoughts constantly forever. It makes it really hard to get shit done, honestly. Also, fuck Tennessee Williams, honestly. I fucking know that being alive is a horrifying experience, and that the illusions we cling to can never truly save us from that sense of quiet desperation that we harbor in our dark hearts. I fucking know, okay? It’s like… obvious. I never, ever, for any reason, ever in my life, need to read, or see, a whole ass depressing ass play about it. Why couldn’t you write some shit about finding joy in the crevasses, or cautious optimism, or the way the terrible wonder of the universe can suddenly hit you, fully, when you’re driving down a city street as the sun goes down, and the street light in front of you turns yellow, replacing the sun for the span of three breaths just as it slips below the mountains. And you almost want to pull over, because you just feel it all welling up inside of you, the liquid light of a billion exploded stars singing in your blood, but you have a place to be, so you just turn your music up a little louder and sing your favorite line. Or like… he coulda written about some cute ass dogs or something.
Tired. Sad. Zillowing. I’m tired of living here. I’m so fucking tired of living here. A dumb part of my brain wants to tell me that moving will magically fix all of my problems. I full know that’s not fucking true… but moving still sounds good. This place feels like quicksand. Drunkenly crying and sort of going hysterical is maybe cathartic? But also sort of not. Also sort of not. I feel pretty lonely, in the way that I feel like I don’t really have anyone to talk to about the stuff I’m feeling. No one I want to tell, anyway. No one I feel comfortable asking for opinions or advice. No one I think would really understand. I’m so fucking tired. I finished a section of my stupid paint with diamonds thing. It’s taking forever and people say doing it makes them feel relaxed but it really makes me feel sorta anxious. Ugh. I should do work, or maybe try to sleep, but that all sounds bad. Instead I’ll maybe just read a little bit. Reading often makes me feel better. Today I went to the library and got 3 books from 3 of my favorite authors, so that’s pretty nice. I just want to forget my problems and throw myself into a two day scene. I want a new harness and this $150 toy I stumbled across earlier today. I want to go on a date to see the new jurassic world movie, and make out in the theater and feel like a stupid fucking teenager.
You know that thing they say about pessimists? “You’re either right, or you’re pleasantly surprised.” Man, I really fucking wish I could be pleasantly surprised more often. I feel sore. Sore in my heart, in my soul guts, or whatever the part of me where the real me lives is called. And I just … … … I just don’t fucking know man. I really don’t. So! Since the part of me where the real me lives feels kicked the fuck around, and I don’t want to actually talk about stuff like that here, but I do want to write because writing is and always has been a useful tool for me, and just typing can be soothing, and I’m really not in the mood to do any more Night Crying(TM), I’m going to just complain about all the annoying little shit that’s happening, that’s not currently relevant to My Sore Heart (new band name called it), but that’s still … not being helpful. Ready? The complain train is about to leave the fucking station.
- I had one of my all time worst tours last night. Was off my game, dropped shit, sucked. Tonight wasn’t much better really, I don’t fuck anything up but it felt like it lasted for a thousand years and I got shit tips.
- I have to do another one tomorrow, and that thought kinda makes my entire being want to shrivel up into a raisin. (Or perhaps a dried cranberry, because raisins are disgusting. Or perhaps a raisin, because raisins are disgusting.)
- I don’t know what the fuck is up with Blackboard, but one of my two summer classes is just totally fucking gone. Like… it’s not on there anymore. I e-mailed the professor but she hasn’t gotten back to me, I checked to make sure I’m still enrolled in the class (I am), sooo I dunno what the fuck to do about that. I have a pretty substantial assignment due for that class on Monday and idk how the fuck I’m supposed to do that if it LiTeRaLlY sToPpEd ExIsTiNg.
- I’m on my goddamn period and it’s making everything worse. It hurts and is gross and my emotions are toast.
- I’m also supposed to write at least 4 freelance articles by Monday morning. There are currently 6 in the queue and they are all fucking horrible bullshit topics. How the fuck am I supposed to write 450 words about buying a replacement battery cover for a goddamn camera? It’s a tiny fucking piece of plastic. Does your camera have one? Cool, then you don’t need one. Is the one on your camera missing? Okay, buy one if you want. You could also just put a piece of tape there tho. You wanna make that into 450 words? including six keywords each of which needs to be used between three and five times? Because I sure as fuck don’t want to.
- I can’t forget to deal with this bullshit unjust parking ticket giant fucking dumbass fucking bullshit, because if I do it will be bad. That’s something else that is for Monday, cuz everything is closed tomorrow. UuUuuuuuuugggghhhhhhhhh.
- I’m fucking TIRED, like so goddamn deeply tired in so many different ways, but like… I can absolutely tell that my brain is not going to shut the fuck up long enough to let me actually go to sleep. So! I might as well stay up for a bit longer and try to write some stupid fucking bullshit! peace.
Hey. I’m not sure. I know my hormones are fucking going or whatever but either way overall I’m rough. Losing my shit over an undeserved parking ticket. Choking on so much nihilistic bile and unable to spit it out. Unable to make it feel like the optimistic kind, and really, truly not knowing how to deal with that. 2 months from today is something I’m deeply not ready for, and between now and that, somehow, an entire condensed semester. Fuck I hate thinking about time. Please, I need to stop. All I can do right now is try to sleep. I finished my book, and 250 tiny little squares of plastic. I can’t find any of my usual grips, the hand and foot holds I find even in the dark. And in short, I am afraid.
Maybe I’ll lead tours
Maybe I’ll coax ghosts
Into the light
Oh you should move house
I’ll show you around
Maybe I’ll take a month
On a sunburnt beachfront
Or give myself
My own first tattoo
It stings like loose rope freedom
And riotous reflections
You could go through the graveyard
Jumped the fence or pushed
The fence in
But instead you ride beside it
Steady speed wishing peace
To every stone you see
No way a ghost
Would hang around here
Just rocks across
From the city bus last stop
Why the fuck would a ghost
Hang around here
You get covered in the city real
Lock your bike to a water pipe
And go in to buy liquor
That ends up putting you
In an awkward position
To say the bone bare least
But try to sharply compensate
And in ten minutes you miss
Three days of lonesome rain
I feel bowled over and dejected by the weight of the world. Fucking buried. growing hopeless and desperate in equal measure. a heart so wrapped so squeezed so so so so so so so so so so so. I don’t even know. I don’t know what to do. Measure my time out in pages and lines. Measure my time out in strokes and strides. I don’t even know. I don’t know what to do. Today I’ll look up names and keep open eyes. Today I’ll write and lie and ride. Today I’ll see what chords my hands remember. This isn’t fun and folly. This isn’t what I wanted.