i am trying so hard to just give up
but it is so hard

Everything sucks. I want out of this. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. This is my blog and I’ll say what I want. Why do I feel like a five year old right now? I can’t help how I feel about PETA anymore. I don’t want to do my job anymore. I don’t want to deal with any of this shit anymore. I am nothing but a huge ball of regrets and loneliness.

People claim to care about me but by and large they are either in the process of letting me down or have let me down in the past anyway, so I don’t feel anything from them when they say it, it just makes me smirk.

Life right now is full of these horrible, vicious ironies that seem lost on everyone but me. It’s like they were designed and implemented just to drive me to jump. And everyone tells me I am imagining things. And that makes me feel even better. I am tired of hurting.

meh

I hate America.

It is time for another one.

Die, capitalist pigs, die.

“early in the mornin’
rise up to the street
light me up my cigarette and i
strap shoes on my feet
got to find a reason
reason things went wrong
got to find a reason why
my money’s all gone
i got a dalmation
i can still get high
i can play the guitar like
a motherfuckin’ riot.”

alice . in . chains

“Hey, I ain’t never coming home
Hey, I’ll just wander my own road
Hey, I can’t meet you here tomorrow
Say goodbye don’t follow
Misery so hollow

Hey you, you’re livin’ life full throttle
Hey you, pass me down that bottle, yeah
Hey you, you can’t shake me round now
I get so lost and don’t know how, yeah
And it hurts to care, I’m going down

Forgot my woman, lost my friends
Things I’d done and where I’ve been
Sleep in sweat the mirrors cold
See my face it’s growin’ old
Scared to death no reason why
Do whatever to get me by
Think about the things I said
Read the page it’s cold and dead

Take me home”

–

Four things essential for my sanity, in no particular order:

– Guitar
– Paintbrushes and canvas and wood
– Pen and paper
– Camera

Right now I have two of four. As a consequence, I am precisely 50% sane.

—

I have been called a “genius” to my face more times than I can count. Counselors, I.Q. test administrators, relatives, child psychologists, blah, blah. Aside from the fact that it puts one in an impossible, awkward situation (what in god’s name do you say in response?), they’re all lost. Genius is in motivation. I have none.

The rest is nothing more than masturbation.

I am not a genius, I am a nihilist. I make a good priest, not a good luminary.

I just saw a full-on picture of fall, with leaves turning red, falling, white skies, damp sidewalks… I nearly fucking burst out crying. It has been two years since I had a proper fall or a proper winter. I have to have them. I have to return to somewhere with seasons. All of my strength and everything that I am come from fall and winter.

I am impossibly, impossibly sad and full of longing for the seasons of the hearth. I can’t bear to be awake right now or to look outside these godforsaken windows and see nothing but fucking palm trees, the liars’ liars. I have to get away.

Bewildering. Truly.

—

In western modernity, no-one has integrity. It is simply not valued. In fact, it is roundly mocked and despised. Those few of us who do our best to have it…

…are forever at risk.

—

Oh, and California is a self-important, sad, impoverished place. I don’t mean financially. I mean ideologically, intellectually, and experientially. Californinans have developed an insular culture that believes that there are only three joys in the entire universe — sun, sex, and cash. All other things in the world and gone out of it as well are, to Californians, punishments and disasters.

Ninety-nine percent of the beauty of life is lost to them, and the trick, while you are here, is to avoid being tricked into becoming one of them.

I, myself, will be snow camping weekends and living in old cities weekdays soon enough. And it suits me.

—

Ich fühle nichts. Ich glaube nichts. Ich bin nichts. Es ist nur so.

Ende.

What a strange and funny and ironic moment in my life. I have no idea. I suppose everything is cyclical. Or something. I have no idea. I don’t know. My phone is ringing. Bleh. Whatever. I’m tired of phones. Silly things.

I don’t know how I feel about life or anything. I wonder if some things that didn’t come through for me in the past would come through for me now that I have an M.A.

Who knows?

For the first time in a long time, I am not in a particuarly bad, nor a particularly good, mood.

I am just even and awake.

Who am I?

When I look in the mirror, I can’t quite see myself.

—

“October 7th, 2000…

It is fall and I am lonely. There is little for me to do for the next
year but work and wait.”

—

“The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear.”

I am going to go and sit in the McDonald’s all weekend, swilling soda, eating veggie burgers, watching football on their sports televisions, and using their wireless internet service. Of all the things in the world right now, that is the most inviting thing that I can possibly think of.

A really, really bad sign.

But there it is.

o my god i do not want to be awake
please
no no no no no no

Jose and Reuben and N– and A– and Murikami and Copland and Cary, the bastard. And Justin the dead and Jon the great. And I am old and dying, like everyone, like all of them.

And Aisha Barnes must die and Kathryn Romney the wise and Miner the miner and the grass. And Bonella the thief and JJ the imprisoned and All Over The World, All Over The World, and Marriott in the dark and the end of time, over and over and over again.

Busses and busses of sorrow and stops late at night in the slow underneath the big clock and the urban glow and the doubt, the doubt, the doubt, and the risk.

And the east side and the west side and the wealthy and the naive.

Shoe-bops and Buddy’s and the Speedway and Monk’s and the invisible man and the guitar girl and her biker father in the mist. And the night of a thousand corpses and the cargo time in the tiny car and the policewoman in the book.

And running and running more and the giant wooden indian head and the dying and the departure and the end of time again.

And again.

—

Happiness is being able to tell the truth without ever hurting anyone, but the only way you can do that is if everyone who must hear it already hates you so badly that they don’t care what you say, and then you can be completely, brutally honest them without risk. You would think that it applies to love, too, if the truth is nice, but it doesn’t, because with love there’s always the chance that you can lose it, no matter how positive you’re trying to be, so you can’t ever really be risk-free or hurt-free in love.

Only with your enemies can you tell the truth without ever hurting anyone.

That’s why: happiness is enemies.

—

Doctor Time and Professor Click. Talk to me, talk to me.

On the road, on the road, on the road, on the road, on the road, on the road, on the road

forever.

—

There is no better way to be driven to success than to be driven to distraction.

Necessity is not the mother of invention, discomfort is the mother of invention.

Love and hate are mirror images that lie at one end the spectrum that stretches between interest and boredom.

It is clear that dogs are wiser than us because they choose to be happier, less independent, and less long-lived.

It is the surfaces of the rivers and the oceans that hold all of the souls once they have abandoned the troublesome third dimension.

All memories are stored in lines tangent to events. All events are stored precisely at moments of force. All moments of force are represented by a simple iterative identity: x = x!

Interestingly, chess moves are also factorials, but they take into account factors like the paranoia of the king.

Alice didn’t wake up; she died.

—

“I am trying my best to hate them all, mother, I really am.”

I have more contact with my boss. PETA has my girlfriend and I… I have nothing.

Welcome to America.
You will be issued a gun.
This is a **high-risk** zone; caution is essential.
For your safety, we recommend that you shoot on sight:

– Chief Executive Officers
– Policemen
– Soldiers
– Congressmen
– Senators
– Presidents
– Preachers

Please have your wallet ready. You may be asked to surrender it to the taxman at any time.

IMPORTANT NOTE: We will not be held responsible for your housing, feeding, clothing, or health. We make no guarantee of survival, either express or implied.

—

Jesus H. Christ, remind me never, ever to go to Atlanta.

—

The U.S. Government has not yet accepted aid from other nations, despite offers totalling billions.

Hundreds of firefighters and emergency personnel have been brought to Baton Rouge only to sit around playing chess and football and reading novels, not being allowed in with their selves or their equipment to help.

Despite hours-long lines to “register for aid” and the assurance that FEMA is on top of things, not a single cent of aid or a single article of clothing has yet been given directly to survivors by the federal government. All monetary aid, shelter aid, clothing aid, as well as most food and water aid, is being donated by local governments and private organizations, not the feds.

Though the feds are happy to appropriate $60bn for “relief.”

In addition to the nearly $300bn on Iraq.

Those few citizens in the suburbs that do still have electricity, water and food stores, and an intact home are being forcibly evacuated to mass shelters where there is no electricity, no running water, and no water and food stores, only to be deported shortly out of state thereafter, owning nothing in the world and with no contribution of property or aid by the government to their state of affairs.

Death to the U.S.A.

—

Note to Bush + the Feds: Take the aid money.

The $60bn you have so casually “appropriated” from our own budgets comes on the backs of citizens via tax revenue — in an already troubled economy — that has just seen several hundred thousand people become unemployed due to the destruction of jobs — representing a giant surge in surplus labor that will drive wages down further — and make that tax burden ever so much heavier — and it’s already insanely high thanks to bombs and tanks — not services for the citizens — I mean, you can see the level of services we get, actually —

Take the FUCKING aid money. You bomb the hell out of the world, then the world is generous enough to offer us help anyway, and now you’re going to be so offensive and nose-in-air as to refuse it?

—

Jesus H. Christ.

A lot of women over the years have told me that they love me. But what does that mean? I don’t think I really know.

Does it mean that they want me to know their secrets? No.
Does it mean they’ll be there for me when I need them? No.
Does it mean they’ll listen to me when I’m down? Not really.
Does it mean they won’t hang up on me? Nope.
Does it mean they won’t lie to me? Not at all.
Does it mean we promise to stay close? Nada.
Does it mean I can always be there for them, at least? Not at all.
Does it mean I can plan things with them? Not so far.

I think it’s not actually love that I’m looking for. Can someone tell me exactly what it is that I want so that I can ask for it by name instead of this “love” thing I keep getting?