path

Did I do something wrong? I guess so. Might as well give in to paranoia.

My list of phone numbers. No hope there.

I'm dead sick of looking. For all those things. I've been here, I've been there, I've been available. But I'm always sloppy, sloppy seconds, backup. Put the kid to work, the one who gives you that good warm feeling. I can't provide that. No use.

I'm dead sick of looking. And fuck YOU for your unsolicited opinion. And fuck ME for being all nice about it. Stupid parties, stupid drugs, stupid habits. Conversation that plagues me for weeks afterward.

I'm going to go to sleep I guess - the 20 hour sleep shift. Why do things feel bleak? Why do people feel hostile? It's got to be me, right? My head. Or did I do something wrong, everything wrong? Nobody knows or cares what it does to my head, to show me disrespect.

Fuck you if you won't give me a place.

Maybe I'm slowly turning into a paranoid schizophrenic, developing convictions about the way the world is, how it's set against me - if I'm questioning that every step of the way, maybe I'm okay. But I'm not. And you know what? It's not all me. Some of it is the world.

I guess it's mainly me not having anything to fill the void - not being willing to try and contrive some pathetic distraction, some television show, some silly nelson circuit, sarcastic sacredity. Outside is just outside - the fresh air doesn't do anything for me. It's void time, it's the ultimate trough. And fuck the ultimate trip. What a stupid fucking song, with a horrible title. I should just axe that whole fucking relationship. But I guess I can't, cause she already did that first.

Fuck this town - fuck that other town. Fuck the people here who won't give me a job. After the 80th fucking application, the 20th fucking interview. Fuck you motherfuckers. And fuck you people who string me along with false hope - just keep trying, you'll get something eventually. Try to be positive. After 80 failures. Yeah, this next one will the be ONE man, the dice are hot! Scratch and win. Fuck your lottery system.

So much effort, so much effort, for nothing. Stop asking me to try. Stop asking me to TRY to find a USE for myself! IF THERE'S NOTHING, there's nothing. What the fuck? I'm not a goddamn salesman. I'm here, I'm available, if you need something. But you don't. So just fuck off.

Who gives a shit anyway? I don't even want a job anymore. It's no solution. There is no such thing as status anyway, not for me - employment, that will be an empty shell. What kind of "home" am I gonna make for myself? Empty people, they give me nothing. This is how people become marginal - when they give up. But sometimes it seems like the world is sending you a signal. A big middle finger.

Fuck drugs. Stupid chemical equations, leave me unbalanced. Then I trick myself into doing them again. And now all I can talk about is chemicals, fucking chemicals! Shut the fuck up already! Fuck medicine, grifonia extract. This 5htp isn't doing shit for me, except making my stomach ache. I can't even get high anymore.

Path. Etic. No Q, it's been Canadianized, I'll keep it local.

Firesign Theatre gave me some laughs today. On an upbeat note. People torture children with tickles. I always hated that. Maybe that's part of my idiosyncratic wrongness, what keeps me estranged from society on so many levels, the matrix of pathetic lust - but I never liked being tickled. It gave me nightmares. I still get nightmares from that. It scarred me. When people see you smile, they think, hey, he must be alright. Shallow, superficial assumptions. I laughed at Firesign, cause my brain knew it was funny. But it didn't change my fundamental feeling, how could it? Catharsis? Give me a fucking break. I guess this is catharsis. It's something to do. It's been a month or two since I went on a fuck everything rant. So I'm due. My internal micro-economical accountancy - a lean-to shanty.