You know what rules? Being miserable.
Wait, no, being miserable the opposite of rules. It… is subjugated? No, I’ll just go with “it sucks”.
And I will commit seppuku based on the utterly terrifying sentence structure that I have been forced to employ.
I have become marginally more rock and roll with the acquisition of my second tattoo. It is a four-pointed star centered upon the joint of my left shoulder.
While I was getting tattooed, one of the other artists in the shop came down to prepare for a job. He was talking about his client, a girl who looked so young that he told her “No” before she even had the opportunity to ask a question. However, she produced a passport, and as such, he agreed to tattoo her.
Her idea was cool. She seemed nice enough. However, she (and her friends) struck me as rather idiotic.
Why? Because she was getting her tattoo because it’s just so punk rock, that’s why.
I’m trying to get used to the time difference; it’s only 1:15am in Las Vegas.
Sometimes, like now, my tricky method of beating time changes by sleeping while traveling backfires. I have five hours to shower, sleep, eat, and leave the house.
I have a feeling tomorrow will be a very long day. I’ve not been well lately; I hope that some semblance of rest can change that.
No matter how I feel, I’m glad to be home. There are things here that I am only too happy to be able to return to.
I woke up a little late, but not too late that I was going to be late. The extra few minutes of sleep were very well received by my tired body.
The sky was overcast, but the weather was as perfect as it has ever been in my world. It was raining lightly, intermittently. The temperature was as lovely as I could have asked, just right for my sweater and jacket.
I’ve become too cynical of late. I was talking to my boss’s daughter the other day, and she asked how I was. Rather than give a perfunctory “I’m fine” answer, I actually told her. What exactly I hoped to gain from this I do now know, but she was understanding enough for someone who had no reason to bother with me.
Why did I feel the need to foist myself on someone — anyone — like that? I can only figure that I am subconsciously trying to drag everyone else down with me. That’s just not nice… no wonder no one thinks it amusing when I self-flagellate any more.
I had a conversation about the source of my general malaise lately, otherwise known as a full-blown depression. The entire point of it, I found, is that there isn’t a source.
I am unhappy. I’ve been this way most of my life. I actually once began dating a girl essentially out of pity; I told her I would never be happy, at which point she kissed me.
Nevertheless, it’s true. I’ve rarely been happy in my life… perhaps never. There are surely moments, but never any extended time; I allow myself to put the good things at a distance so I can focus on the things that eviscerate my spirit. Even moments that should be triumphant are often met more with a feeling of relief: “I managed this without screwing up.”
I wish I was a dreamer. I used to think I was, but the truth is, I shoot holes in my own goals. I can’t do it; success is constantly eluding me.
The real problem about all this is that I don’t care; I can see the problems, but my past failures have taught me not to care.
I can’t remember most of what I said to my roommate. I’m remembering in pieces; I can never tell the whole story.
I want to be happy once.
I feel so unbelievably alone right now.
There are some questions that should only be answered with a breathless reference to James Joyce’s Ulysses. The only reply should be the final line from that book:
“Yes I said yes I will yes.”
If you woke up and I was in bed with you, what would be your first thought?
I think it’s time for me to go to sleep. Hopefully when I awaken things will be back to simple.