| Ride on |
[Mar. 8th, 2008|03:43 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  sad | ] |
Without provision and undue care, with nothing more than brilliance, naivete, and a disregard for the pain, physical/emotional/financial, that will come, I walk, and I do so alone.
The world is a stage, let's just hope I'm not the character who gets killed off in the second act. |
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| Is it about being great or showing everyone else up, Tom Petty? |
[Mar. 5th, 2008|12:35 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  fucking crazy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Beck - Nobody's Fault But My Own | ] |
Its almost time to stop feeling sorry for myself.
Almost time.
How can I expect to have a girlfriend when I don't even know where I am or what I'm doing most of the time? I don't even get to reason it away with a drug addiction or crippling disease.
Thinking seriously about suicide, even briefly, is wholly frightening, but also liberating.
Today I tried to draw someone and it didn't turn out as well as I hoped. I'm getting rusty. I'm losing time, I'm losing sleep, I'm losing my natural talents.
The only time I feel human is when I'm with her. That's not fair to her, and it makes my case that much worse. I trust nobody and feel sad about that, a flair for theatric is matched only by devastating loneliness.
I haven't got a sanctuary in the world. Everyone is leaving, and the others I don't fully trust. In my head, I plan out elaborate murder-driven revenge scenarios, just in case.
Tick tick tick.
When you hate yourself, the only place to go is up! |
|
|
| The universe is chaos, but chaos picks favourites |
[Feb. 20th, 2008|02:08 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | sick | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Peter Frampton - Baby, I Love Your Way | ] |
I am killing myself.
The way I eat, the sleep I don't get, the stress over finances and women and creativity and snobbishness.
Something tells me to let it slide, the hell with them and all the bullshit, the pointless studying and the people I am loathe to interact with, planning for the future that doesn't really exist.
And then something else says the only thing I'm doing with my irresponsibility now is eating my way to diabetes and then a heart attack, making myself nauseous over erroneous people for stupid reasons, going nowhere and accomplishing nothing. The spirit of adventure shouldn't end with me homeless and dead from pneumonia.
Still with me? Its a constant tussle between worry (of failure and poor quality of life) to apathy (of hard work that may or may not matter) and I'm worried about making the wrong choices. I'm waiting for the singularity to save us, but living poorly just in case health and a low-risk lifestyle will be all for naught.
Should I man up and start eating right and working out, or will I just burnout and kill my GPA and personal creativity through time-consuming over-exertion? Do people really change that much to where they actually enjoy working hard for the sake of it? Who the fuck are these assholes?? Is hanging out with my ex-girlfriend to stave off depression and feel like a human being with human emotions that bad of an idea? Will I ever stop having dreams about Dom and building her up in my mind as the perfect moral antithesis to myself (who also happens to be physically beautiful and without flaw)? Is it bad that doing so makes me feel kinda like the Great Gatsby which is really more incentive for me than it should be?? Should I tell Yas that I really like her but have a horrible fear of being rejected due to (A)my life looking pretty dull to people who like to party, who is everyone else my age (B)overwhelming fear of looking like an idiot or an asshole in front of somebody's friends and family (C)little free time or free money to spend (D) all of the above?? Was blowing off my co-worker when I realized that meaningless, emotionally hollow hook-ups make me physically ill a little immoral? Am I really going to get this graduation thing off the ground? What about those huge fuck-off loans you're supposed to pay back?
Can Maya (or anyone) really think that refusing to believe in scientific fact on the basis that it sharply conflicts with your faith is a legitimate way of thinking and living? Is ignorance really better than misery or uncertainty? Seriously guys, what the fuck, I have so little certainty in anything, but the exact opposite is the foundation on which I am able to function. Its completely staggering to me, like the crazy racist stereotypes that wouldn't be uncommon in the south in 1950, but just sound so absurd in this day and age, only you can't call it stupid because its someone's religion, which can't be called out because there's just enough legitimate and intelligent religious beliefs that the insane ones go unchecked right alongside them. Its fucking unbelievable! ("Well gee Josh, your beliefs pretty much bring you nothing but constant depression and crippling inability to function socially, SOUNDS LIKE A GREAT CASE OF LEADING BY EXAMPLE")
Does neuroticism completely cripple everyone's decision-making process, or is it just mine? Do I hate everything for any real reason, or am I just an elitist?
Is it too late?
Is anyone reading this? (smijey doesn't count) |
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| Just doing that thing every once in awhile |
[Nov. 20th, 2007|01:35 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | gloomy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Kanye West - Big Brother | ] |
Just read an extremely well-written, verbose article on the death of OiNK. Good read if you're familiar with filesharing, or just hate tyranny.
Currently writing an extremely poorly-structured, padded research paper on epilepsy myths. Poor grades look probable. Missed registration by a day, classes most likely fucked. I hope they give loans to 'C' students.
Still everyday considering throwing all my shit in my car and just driving. Would probably talk myself out of it halfway through disassembling my PC setup, but its still nice to have a backup plan that doesn't involve getting hit by shrapnel in Baghdad. Also, still everyday imagine post-apocalyptic dead world everytime eyes close (possibly related?).
Skimmed Future Girl today, rediscovered glimmer of potential, berated self for lack of updates/video game addiction.
Success is temporary. We're all dead eventually, and I'm going to miss the boat an transhumanism and functional immortalism, squandering seventy years of life. Pray (to who, exactly?) that this isn't true, but not optimistic. No feelings of love, no capacity for compassion.
You know, the usual. |
|
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| As we dance on, and on, and on. |
[Oct. 17th, 2007|01:54 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | crushed | ] |
And the day continues imperceptibly, my exhaustion and anger entirely missed. Its difficult to see why anyone would care, and in turn even moreso why I would care about anyone. But acting all nihilistic by yourself is just depressing, and I feel the need for some kind of emotional connection, something to make the time-consuming lack of a life I lead less unbearable.
But everywhere I turn, I see flaws in everybody. Not that I'm perfect or even exemplary, I almost envy people who don't care about stupid things like "she doesn't even read books" or "her favorite movie is Notting Hill" and just sort of go through life crashing into eachother, completely unconcerned by the little details. I feel like I'm waiting for an attractive, clever, intelligent girl who thinks about transhumanism, loves low-budget sci-fi movies, reads trashy comics and is emotionally and mentally balanced with a keen fashion sense to boot and for some reason finds the idea of dating me appealing, like I'm holding everyone I meet to the same standards I hold myself to, which doesn't work because they are fucking insane and don't apply to regular well-adjusted people.
What a wasted life. Neurotic, over-analytical, sheltered, cynical, pointless stupid fucking life. |
|
|
| Thanks, God, and also winamp |
[Sep. 26th, 2007|10:34 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  determined | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Against Me! - Take Aim | ] |
Frantically trying to focus on finding a suitable research paper topic for Health Psychology, completely out of ideas for my Graphic Design II project, not yet begun my charcoal self-portrait in Life Drawing and only halfway through one of only four assignments in Humanities with both due tomorrow, and with about ten CDs set to random on winamp, what's the first thing that comes up? |
|
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| Something beautiful, something momentary |
[Aug. 8th, 2007|04:31 am] |
| [ | Current Location |
| | My house, faggot | ] |
| [ | mood |
| | drunk | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Gipsy Kings - Hotel California | ] |
Who's to say who's right? Sunday, shun off all social contact, adhere to life of comics, movies, writing and drawing. Nerd nirvana.
Tuesday, drunk in a hot tub, saying our final farewells to acquaintances we'll never see again, loud incoherent political debates, love on the battlefield.
Both are appealing. One friend resigns himself to a life of money-hoarding, parties, and complete shallowness of the soul. Nothing wrong with that, until he becomes so annoying you can't stand to be around. Cut off all contact, cauterize the wound? Fuck it. Its too late to raise much of an effort towards being somber or reflective about it either way.
Kill all his friends? Maybe later. A brief MySpace surveillance indicates no great loss.
Staring at the moon; a fraud. Its like the ultimate "I'm fucking wasted but I'm attempting something deep, bear with" move. Today I spent two hours playing Tetris; not just me, my entire training class, including the trainer. Just dicking around, at $7.50 an hour.
"I am Jack's wasted life." |
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| Usually I try to overword these things because I'm a neurotic fuck, but tonight, its all for me |
[Jul. 27th, 2007|02:51 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  worried | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Blonde Redhead - Top Ranking | ] |
The new job.
Its still training, and its still in a call center, and I still don't know how to feel, because the good times and comraderie advertised by Mike are absent, due to him suddenly abandoning his friends, failing to show up at (or call) work, and isolating himself entirely from everyone but his psychotic, manipulative fiance, who he's gotten back with. Leave it to my life to thrust me headlong into a new situation, and then cut out the reason I put myself there in the first place.
Whatever. Its almost too stupid a situation to consider caring about.
The actual training is mindless and repetetive, and today included a presentation by two of the corporate numbers; one was Peter, an oddly grotesque, yet smooth-talking, persuasive type, who almost made you want to be a telemarketer, talking it up like it was better than a blowjob from a supermodel, and he's so, so excited that you almost believe him. Second was Monique, who spoke like a machine gun, disjointed and way, way too quickly to keep up or feign interest. The kind of person that is obviously really good at their job yet lack the ability to teach others in any way approaching effectively.
My co-workers are your standard archetypes; single mom, military wife, fresh-faced overeager teenager, guy-in-a-band, pothead, guy that just needed a quick $300 and will be gone by next week, ghetto black chick, rough-around-the-edges married couple that are far too old to still be working some shit telemarketer job and take it way more seriously than anyone else, etc. We share small jokes and roll our eyes at the lame training activities and maybe laugh about that one time we got sooo fucked up on our 21st birthday, but beyond that there is nothing but apathy, flashes of anger, sudden stings of depression, and total detachment.
I tell myself that it's all just a game, that I can benefit from this, not only in the monetary need sense, but that being polite and faking enthusiasm in hopes of getting someone to buy a radio or upgrade their account will help me function more in the real world, the real world full of pointless chit-chat and feigned smiles. I have to constantly remind myself that within a week of actually taking calls, all the anxiety over scripts and deals and specials will give way to ordinary job-loathing, and all will be back to normal. After all, you can't beat the game unless you know the rules, and rejecting it entirely isn't really an option anymore. I just hope, I pray playing it gets easier.
Just a ride. Just need to bide my time a little longer without cracking.
And if not, I mean, dropping out of college and fucking off to a monastery doesn't sound too bad.
Sometimes I just wish I could be anybody else. Anybody who doesn't care about all the completely stupid irrelevant shit I do. |
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|
| Probably. |
[Jun. 16th, 2007|03:58 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  curious | ] |
| [ | music |
| | That Kanye remix of that Fall Out Boy song | ] |
Is apathy better than malevolence? |
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| I was surprised to even remember my password |
[Apr. 13th, 2007|05:39 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | depressed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Desktop - Look At Me | ] |
I was only barely aware that I even still had a LiveJournal. I wonder if I still have a friends list?
Did you guys know I have a webcomic now? It only has nine pages but I'm trying to get it going, and it should be more consistently updated this summer. Go read it! And now; melancholy.
I haven't really, genuinely cried in over a year (noncoincidentally, its been a little over a year since I broke up with Joni). I realized this today, when I was staring at a court summons for some stupid, pointless ticket that involved me blowing through a stop sign at 1:00 AM one night. I missed the cutoff date to turn in all my shit by literally less than twenty-four hours, and half a year later, here I am, probably owing an outlandish amount of fees to the State of Texas, for one stupid slip-up.
Admittedly, it's my fault. It's always my fault. I didn't have to take two vacations within two weeks of eachother. I didn't have to give that stripper all the money in my wallet, and I certainly didn't have to blow off my defensive driving and fuck myself, and then have it come back to bite me a year later when I have a maxed out credit card and an empty wallet.
Not that that's any reason to bring up crying. Just stupid, little, no-big-deals. But when they pile up and up, and then things finally seem to be going okay and getting straightened out, I get a reminder in the mail of past, stupid transgressions, and I just feel so overcome with frustration that I just wish I could slowly work my way into a sob, reduced to utter tears and a childlike helplessness, moments before I have to clean up and get to work. Because then I'd know it was okay, then I could think with a clear head about how frivolous and fleeting life is, and I wouldn't have this pit in the bottom of my stomach, and I certainly wouldn't get to work and explode at one of my co-workers, who, while definitely stupid as hell, will be undeserving of my pent-up aggressions being taken out on them.
'Everybody dies, so nothing matters' is such a great philosophy too, I just wish it could be applied to a fucking neurotic.
Ugh. So pointless. Let's just hope the Royal Tenenbaums soundtrack can hit me hard enough to make me tear up. I mean, something, for God's sake. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jan. 2nd, 2007|05:08 am] |
Today, as I was eating New Year's dinner with my parents, they began to ask me about my plans for the new year. I told them I was going to actually, finally start my webcomic, and they began asking me about it, not condescendingly (well, not intentionally) but more in the way you'd ask a retarded child to describe his day at the zoo. I found myself kind of struggling to describe the meaningfulness behind the idea: No, you don't have to appeal to the majority, no, you don't have to specifically sell a product to generate any kind of revenue. It was an exercise in futility. Not that my parents are unsupportive, the opposite, actually, but they looked at me like I was some kind of fucking idiot. That's when I realized that my primary motivator isn't even financial gain or notoriety anymore; its spite.
Every art teacher that looked at my cartoons with that kind of "Why is this moron in my class? Doesn't he know this course is for real artists?" look, every jackass who looked at me with blank stares when I explain why I'm not a business major, everyone who ever called me lazy or stupid (okay, lazy I can't defend against, but its more a grudge of principle).
My final design project was due three days after my final drawing project, which I spent roughly twenty hours on, about fifteen of which were consecutive. The design project? Functional yet sculptural. I decided to slap together a wooden cupholder with three arachnid legs holding it up, one of which broke on the way to present it. The entire thing was a piece of shit, admittedly. But the day we presented, my design teacher sort of sardonically remarked that he knew it was terrible and he knew it was going straight in the trash afterwards. I have that shitty cupholder to this day, purely out of spite for his bitchy comment.
It is about creativity and expression and having fun, but really, my most powerful driving force, my primary motivator, is the thought that, years from now, each and every one of my detractors will have a copy of Future Girl Volume 1 sent to them, and on the inside, written crudely in Sharpie, will be written "FUCKING EAT IT."
The website is UP, though without little to show for it. Check back Friday for page 1. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 10th, 2006|05:51 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  happy | ] |
Hahahaha. Oh my God.
Tonight I got home from work, jerked off, went to meet a friend for a drink at a bar (which closed an hour later), walked across the street to an after-party at another bar across the street, talked to a very drunk woman about her devout belief in astrology and spirituality for an hour, somehow wound up with her number, met the proprietors of both bars (and left on good terms with, I think), listened to way too much NIN, talked about scientology, and finally stumbled to my car around 4:30 AM, and I didn't pay a dime the entire night for the many beers drank. Not that my goal was to drink a lot (far from it, I never got past a buzz), but its nice to know.
I feel so fucking great right now, and I don't know why. The jerking off beforehand probably really helped. |
|
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| I'd trade in all my pills for all your pillow-talk |
[Nov. 5th, 2006|05:00 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | lonely | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Johnny Hobo & the Freight Trains - D.I.Y. Orgasm | ] |
It's a beautiful night, and I wish that I didn't give a fuck. Life is so pointlessly hectic sometimes. I guess I brought it on myself, majoring in art and minoring in psychology, so I'm always either studying complicated textbooks or working endlessly on projects I barely like. This is discounting all sorts of other stupid, stupid factors; blowing off defensive driving classes until I realize everything's due two days later (who can really be blamed for that one, though, aside from the city?), having a bleeding abscess on my spine, sleep deprivation from the aforementioned collegiate assignments, an occasionally painful, crippling case of arrested development and antisocial tendencies, and most importantly, a website that I haven't updated since I bought it.
I always thought I had strong mental faculties and the wherewithal to not crack under the (arduous, suburban-life) pressure, but I don't think my body can keep up. Nausea, rashes, fatigue, insomnia, gastrointestinal problems; my temple is very quickly starting to fall apart on me. I tried meditation before I realized I didn't really believe in Buddhism, and sometimes music would help, until over half my CD's were stolen. Most of them were burned from my hard drive anyway; but my disk-drive is damaged and I can't burn anything at the moment. All outside forces conspire to fuck with my head, I swear to God. It seems like slowly the universe is pushing me towards the edge, and eventually I'm just going to topple over and you'll hear about it all over the news:
'MANIAC GUNS DOWN POPULAR ROCK BAND NICKELBACK, FANS OF TERRIBLE MUSIC THE WORLD OVER MOURN THE LOSS'
or maybe
'THE BLACK-EYED PEAS KIDNAPPED AND FORCED TO LISTEN TO THEIR OWN MUSIC ENDLESSLY AS SOME SORT OF BIZARRE METHOD OF TORTURE, TAKE THEIR OWN LIVES FIVE HOURS LATER' |
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| It's too windy in Heaven, so I watch from the ground |
[Oct. 6th, 2006|01:11 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | rushed | ] |
Poetically violent.
The phrase first came to mind when watching Sasha Grey's lily-white ass getting completely railed by some scuzzy European guy, when, between her faked moans and your standard fuck-me-I'm-such-a-fucking-whore fare, she cried out "You make me feel like nothing. I am nothing."
Whump. That was the sound of my mind suddenly shifting between mindless, hormone-driven primate to pretentious, over-analytical prick without a clutch. What the hell just happened, I blinked to myself, and why have the edges that define reality started to vibrate and blur?
Poetically violent. It just came to me, popped into my mind, and its the kind of phrase that can communicate so many different images, sounds, memories, all fantastic and harrowing in varying ways. Thank you, porn-starlet Sasha Grey, for altering my perception with your surreal concepts of dirty talk.
I don't know what I'm doing or where I'm going with my life, but does anyone, really? Is it considered insane when you are innately aware of the fact that nothing you actually do within your lifetime will probably matter ten (let alone fifty or one-hundred) years later? Is it nihilism to actually embrace this idea, to laugh at it, rather than simply keeping it safely hidden away at the back of your mind like most people? Am I just masturbating here, all over my LiveJournal?
I've always held the idea that everything is funny, in some way. And, being non-religious, its the only hope I have. Because if our lives, and the fact that they are comprised of a few fleeting moments in the span of infinity, aren't something you can laugh at, then what's the point? The only thing funnier than the sad truth of our short existence is the fact that some people take their's so seriously. Why stress out over taxes, or cars, or bank accounts or relationships or job security or grade point averages?
When you can laugh at anything, you are invincible. This is fact. Not that I myself have this ability, though the fact that I laugh now instead of tear up when I think of the broken promises and half-truths that made up my last relationship seems to be a good indicator of progress (Of descent into madness! Haha, good going me). The sad irony is that the ideas behind these words are so monumentally important, but no one will ever really give them heed; and even if they did, its probably impossible to deprogram people who have been humorless their entire lives. Christ, talk about fate worse than death.I just wish more people understood where I'm coming from, here: Everything will be fine, because we are going to die, and the universe will continue on, and on, and on, regardless of whether or not we blow each other apart with nuclear weapons twenty minutes from now, or humanity ushers in a golden age of technology and we press on another million years, zipping around in flying cars and railing the lily-white asses of our hot robot girlfriends.
I hope that if Jerry Springer ever commits suicide, his last words are "And that was my final thought." |
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| Everyone wants to live forever, no one ever gets it together |
[Oct. 2nd, 2006|10:52 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  sleepy | ] |
| [ | music |
| | the Flaming Lips - Sunship Balloons | ] |
I feel vaguely introspective. Everybody step back.
Not that anyone reads these; it is a journal, but I find myself teetering between vague depression and vague euphoria on an hourly basis these days.
Like an amnesiac coming to, I often find myself going back over my past relationship with a stunning clarity no longer made hazy by false hopes and subconscious mental barricades. Suddenly, it's not so confusing that everyone else, including several of my friends and people I hardly knew, were all telling me they had seen her kissing, hugging, making out with other guys at various locations. This was back in high school, the first time we dated, and the question has gone from wondering why everyone but her was embellishing, twisting, and flat-out lying to me, to how I could be such an astounding tool.
Do I write like a pretentious asshole?
This is completely disregarding more recent, more obvious events, and I just wish now that I could've figured out she'd been lying to me almost nonstop from the get-go, and saved myself some heartbreak. Now I falter between laughing at myself because it was just so ridiculous, to tearing up when I think about how I built up the first girl I ever loved into this holy, tragic, beautiful figure that had the entire world set against her from the start; I was almost completely obsessed with saving a false representation of what, in reality, was just an emotionally-damaged girl with a persecution complex, the tendency to compulsively lie to everyone around her, and the unfortunate circumstance of being born into an abomination of a white trash family. And then, for the ultimate in irony, less than a week after we broke up she started dating (well, continued dating, probably) the most inbred hick she could find. The cycle continues on, and on, and on, and is one of many reasons I can't decide if I want to laugh or cry at how monumentally fucked-up life seems to be. GIT-R-DONE!
I don't know what to think anymore, I don't know what to feel besides exhaustion, and it's starting to affect my ability to function. Every girl I meet I almost unwillingly evaluate as wrong in some way; too fat, not pretty enough, no style, not interesting enough, stupid, bad hair, not enough opinions about existentialism, likes Nickelback, has way too much school spirit, over-emotional. Not that throngs of women are throwing themselves at me, begging me to show them the true ways of love, but I feel jaded and withdrawn all the same, like to everyone but my close friends I'm just putting up the facade of being an easy-going college student.
I don't know. I need sleep. |
|
|
| How pretentious does my music selection seem right now |
[Sep. 20th, 2006|11:54 am] |
| [ | mood |
| | grateful | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Rachmaninov - III Adagio | ] |
I love MySpace. Not only is it a great place to circlejerk and stalk girls that you're too afraid to actually speak to because you're socially inadequate, but it also makes it so much easier to catch stupid people in the act of a lie.
Paranoia is just another word for ignorance, and with such truth-defining evidence laid out before me through sheer idiocy, I feel free. It's not hard to call bullshit on someone who doesn't take the time to cover their own tracks.
It's so liberating I could laugh until I cried. |
|
|
| Well FUCK YOU |
[Sep. 9th, 2006|11:34 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  murderous fucking rage | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Johnny Cash - Like the 309 | ] |
"By four o'clock, I've discounted suicide in favor of killing everyone else in the entire world instead."
My mental sickness was put aside for a genuine physical sickness, which manifested itself subtly Thursday night, only to hit me like a drunk driver plowing into a jogger at 7:37 AM the next morning, when my alarm began beeping erratically and I could barely summon the energy to poke my hand out from the covers I had woven around myself to click it off. Any thoughts of going to class were instantly dismissed, and I spent the next three hours in a deep sleep, before getting up long enough to shakily make my way downstairs, swallow a few pills that I vaguely recall advertising themselves as 'extra strength', and stumbling into the hot tub.
I love the hot tub. It helps me shut off my mind, shuts off the fact that I am alone, the fact that I'm already barely passing any of my classes at big-people college, the fact that I'm in an artistic rut and probably doomed to poverty regardless of my aspirations, and the fact that I have been working as a delivery boy at Pizza Hut for two goddamn years.
It's been one of those weeks.
I'm glad Snakes on a Plane wasn't a smashing success, which renews my faith in the American movie-going public. I know that, in advance by almost a year, people on the internet were raving "No, you don't understand! It's going to be good because it's so bad!" What, now we're applauding Hollywood for making intentionally bad movies? Thankfully, I was proven wrong, and Snakes on a Plane will soon be remembered only as a shitty Samuel L. Jackson (who, let's face it, peaked with Pulp Fiction and has essentially been playing either a parody or watered-down version of that character since) movie that was funny to teenage-to-twenty-something hipster idiots.
That wasn't entirely tangential; today I saw the other side of the coin in the form of a beer-guzzling, fraternity-centred tailgate. First game of the year! Biggest fucking tailgate of the semester! Come! Drink! Experience.
Yes. Well, okay. I mean, I'm still kind of sick, but whatever.
The first two hours were fun, in that the more I drank the less the inane chatter around me was irritating, and then, somewhere around 3:00 PM (we started drinking at noon) I fell off my peak, and realized I was sitting in the blazing sun, drinking shitty beer and surrounded by people who couldn't give a shit if I dropped dead of a heart attack right there. Not that the feeling wasn't mutual, but drinking with strangers whose only common interests equate to alcohol and sex is fairly sombering when you actually realize what your life has suddenly become.
Am I a better person for sitting here in the dark listening to music to kill yourself to (Johnny Cash and Dashboard Confessional) and trying to stay conscious long enough to pound out all my contempt and anger into my keyboard? Not at all! But consider this: The ideal broseph hook-up scenario involves meeting a dumb blonde slut with big tits at some sort of alcohol-based social event, not having to pretend to care about what she's saying for more than a minute or two, and then taking her back to the dorm to drunkenly fuck, video-taping optional. My ideal hook-up scenario involves the same slut, only now she's wearing dark-rimmed glasses and has dark red hair. We meet by chance in a coffee shop and end up talking about the limitations of philosophy on modern society for two hours before going back to her place to engage in tantric sex acts. It's just differences.
My buzz continued fading along with the setting sun until Andrew showed up, which was 5:00 PMish and right about the time Mityas was becoming extremely drunk. Having not seen him in such a state in more than two years, I forgot that he stops being a funny asshole, and trades it in for being a screaming, somewhat embarrassing asshole. Not intentionally, however; I'm certain that "YEAH-OKAY JONI FUCK GODDAMN WEIGHT-SCAH-FUCKING NEW MEXICO LAND FARM" was meant to be a humorous barb, but filtered through the magic of countless shotgunned beers it only resulted in me and Andrew shifting somewhat uncomfortably and looking at eachother. Being anything but barely able to stand at a tailgate is like trying to fuck a bobcat; physically irritating, mentally taxing, audibly and odorously repugnant, and having an only vague memory of why you considered it a good idea when you initially started. Doubly so, as the illness that I attempted to stave off the night before was now back with a vengeance.
Now all I have are dead heroes, an intense vibrating sensation pressing against the back of my eyes, the slight worry that mixing alcohol and medication is going to fuck me up, and the misery to not give a shit either way at this point. I'm not a martyr, just someone with enough angry energy to rail against society and in the process isolate myself from normal people who don't have time to have real opinions about political corruption or soulless pop music or manufactured rebellion. It's a lonely and depressing life, but one I have to accept readily to the alternative if I hope to die lacking any shame.
God, I hate alcohol. And people. And college. |
|
|
| Spiritual detox |
[Sep. 4th, 2006|11:09 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| |  blank | ] |
| [ | music |
| | RJD2 - Lazerfaces Warning Remix | ] |
"Class traitor, what-fucking-ever, I'm just another middle-class kid too. But if I'm not good at changing, I'm good at self-loathing, so I'll class-hate myself with you."
A gradual decline is far worse than a sudden plunge into darkness; with the former you can immediately recognize the deterioration in your own quality of existence. I have strayed too far from the path, not the well-trodden path of the average person, but my own personal road has been abandoned in favor of milling and stumbling about the dark woods, uncertain and uneasy. We warned you, Bilbo! Watch out for the giant spiders, jackass!
It is not the time for damage control, now is the time for rest, running only on the barest of mental faculties until all is cleansed, and then rebooting. I have gone far too long without the artistic spark, and I felt it again tonight, though barely through the many layers I had heaped on myself, and I have to get it back.
Now I tread lightly, quickly and quietly, and regain a sense of self, a sense of purpose and a sense of utter sobriety.
Later, yo. |
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| Heh |
[Aug. 31st, 2006|11:03 pm] |
| [ | mood |
| | depressed | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Transplants - What I Can't Describe | ] |
This week was pretty interesting, in the same way that watching a man have a heart attack so violent his heart actually breaks away and tries to escape his chest (more commonly known as Scared Heart Syndrome) would be interesting.
It all started the weekend prior, when outside forces conspired against me (alcohol) and all the reading and drawing I was determined to complete (or at least begin) Sunday morning was traded in for walking up around noon with a pounding head. I told myself I'd do it Sunday night, when yet more outside forces conspired (Maya) and the entire day was a complete loss.
Thus, with both a drawing due and a quiz on Tuesday, I began my work early Monday morning, took a six hour break to go to work, and then, fueled entirely by enough caffeine to feel it throbbing against the back of my eyes, I continued long into the night, completing my drawing around 3:00 AM and collapsing on my open psychology book around 4:00 AM.
My alarm went off at 7:30 AM.
That first two minutes spent conscious in bed is the most agonizing two minutes of the entire day. Every molecule of your being is shrieking at you to stay in bed, with only the tiniest bit of reason gnawing at the back of your mind. I showered, dressed, and was in my car barreling towards UTEP, choking down a lukewarm bottle of soda and blasting music at an incredibly shrill volume before I even realized I was awake. The next few hours were a nightmare of struggling to keep half-conscious amidst the inane babble of my psychology professors, and then, right around the time I had just finished my quiz (I got a 74), and then, all my exhaustion and anxiety suddenly turned off, and for the next eight or so hours I was in a blissful state of mind where I felt nothing but calm throughout my entire body and mind, a state that completely transcended being tired and left me in a gray sort of serenity. Then, right around 9:00 PM, it crashed, hard, and I was so exhausted, I barely managed to make it to my hot tub for a quick soak before passing out in my bed. Definitely one of the more surreal days of my life, but if it's any indication of how college operates, I think I'll be seeing a lot more like it.
Oh, and here's that stupid drawing whatever I don't even care anymore
(Click for the extra huge version) |
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hadakang's journal
embarrassed