can I sever better? that is the question. sever the ties that keep me bound and wound too tight, and worrying about stuff like shirt collars and grooming for chrissakes... it's so weird that i don't even fit with hippies - how's that for a misfit shitfit? there are times when it seems i must grasp ahold of anything, anything but this! fucking fucking fucking fucking fuck. I'm looking at my competition across the room from me. the guy in the nike cap at the little table talking to the lady with the sour newfie voice, irish gone rancid - hoop earrings the size of bicycle wheels. I wonder if they'll tell me about all the other resumes they got. Can I swap my pheromones with a co-applicant? might as well trade a dixie cup of urine for the drug test while we're at it - not that I need clean piss, but I need untainted pheromones that don't unconsciously project an off-putting paranoid neurosis, a just-barely sub-clinical case of schizophrenia.
wow. that went terrible. i feel terrible. praying doesn't help. you'd think it would, wouldn't you? cause it's the right thing to do, it's spiritual, you're getting into the spirit of things when you pray. but it doesn't seem to change anything, even my attitude - i'm not saying it can't work, i'm saying i'm too stubborn for it to work on me - yeah, i'm not willing, or whatever - i've nailed that down, at least - i'm sick of this struggle to believe things - i don't believe in god. i don't believe in luck. nothing is very real to me except this predictable bullshit - this predictably disgusting, in-public SHIT! shit is such a perfectly crude word to describe what i've been doing on a day to day basis for a while now - i'm not going to fill out another form - i'm not going to create another character - i've wasted enough time - i've had enough hopes dashed
i'm getting closer and closer to opting out - and don't anyone co-opt my opt out - let me have one to myself - or actually, maybe do co-opt it, if you want, i could use some company, on the outside - funny when people think they can tell me to accept this or that or not - there's a line i'd edit out, except i don't care to on this occasion - don't care to do much editing
dying inside makes me want to die on the outside - maybe i could finally find a use for rum - "officially dying" sounds kind of fun, do i get a certificate? maybe a hand tattoo - what a shitty string of days - and it's not even that shitty - why does it get to me so much then? because i have so little strength in me - never had much, and there's almost none left of what was there in the first place - i gotta say something about confidence, how it's fuckin dust these days - i think i suck - whatever it is i'm good at, it's not much use to anybody... when did money get so important to me? fuck, that's sad, that it did, i'm conflating my worth with how market capitalism values things - but somehow, that feels like the only real thing anymore - and i can't stop comparing myself negatively to everyone around me - everyone seems to know more, do more, cope better than me, and even the ones that fuck up and flip out, well, they have better reason to, an all-around superior style - i think i might just be ranked last, it's seeming plausible - congratulations, everybody else, you try harder, you're more willing - i'm not, i had to draw the line somewhere
i'm open to alternatives - alternative lifestyles - theft - i should have thought this through years ago, i'm too old to become a punk just now - then i got just a little too comfortable for too long, and now i have to make decisions that are so much the harder in the cold light of day - but i might have to make them anyway, throw away a lot of comforts, for a peace of mind that might be serene enough to make up for lack of comforts i've gotten used to, and come to believe that i needed - there's something really sickly depressing about the need to believe something, what that says about things... that the reality is so hideous, you can peak at it from inside a comfortable narcotized bubble, but eventually, when that bubble bursts, the clear light of reality will quickly drive you to grasp at something, NEED to BELIEVE in something
camus thought there was a reason to live... i presume... vidal thought his life was "enough"... lucky fuck, easy to say, when you've lived a rich full life like that, published acclaimed books, grown up with privilege and access, hobnobbed with the rich and powerful, literary giants, movie stars - how easy then to equate death with the sleep of the just or something - what if your life was sad, short, and full of child-abuse and leukemia? and you died at, let's say, 15, so i don't get arguments along the lines of that, like, you're not really a fully conscious human being before a certain age - does vidal think, in that case, you had 15 years to contrive some kind of a full life, and if you didn't, then you wasted it yourself, so, fuck you if it wasn't enough for you? i'll have to take what i can get out of life, i guess, i'll possibly admit that, as much as i can in weasel words, but also, i'm not a forceful taker, you know? not a convincing faker... a maker? i'd like to be... i'd like to be one of those type who makes things, that are useful to other people, that aren't art projects for my own personal taste, that only i enjoy reading back and looking at and listening to
does anyone want to hire me to do anything? like clean things? if so, i'll take the first offer, i'll work for minimum wage, if that'll sweeten the deal - but i will NOT fill out another form and sit through another interview and grimace my way through another performance, and be waiting and waiting for the phone to ring, for a miraculous message that a job i went through the motions for has, in fact, been made available to me
i'm accepting offers... not maybes - no more maybes - i'm looking for a simple trade, manual labour in exchange for money with which to buy goods and services - why is this so complicated?
complicated lies, society is so full of complicated lies, and i've barely begun deciphering them - i'm slow on the uptake, a late-bloomer, all those terms that make me want to puke - i wish i was funny like a stand up comic - i was i was more compassionate - i respect compassion, at least, i appreciate it - i even have a bit of my own amateur version of it - it's probably keeping me here on this earth, for another cycle - i'm sure they'll be a lot of those, for fuck's sakes, again