Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Wednesday, December 04, 2002


I am hungover and I still need a haircut. Today's pains will net me another morning of feeling drug through gravel and fish hooks. This abuse has value, much as slamming a finger in a door repeatedly feels better once you stop.

Is my childhood overwith? I no longer delude myself into thinking that everything will be better once I reach my inevitable rich and famous turn. I no longer entertain myself thinking that my thoughts and feelings are valuable and important. Mom saying how special I am was just a storybook line to keep me comfortable and safe. No, I try to to stare down a future of drudgery, scraping for dollars to keep the belly full and the skin warm. I don't like it and it feels suspiciously like waiting to die. I must find something that I like doing that will support me. I am envious of those who know themselves and their place in the world. Some people learn easily what they want to do. Not me. I must find it and I don't know how to even look. Emptiness humbles.

The freedom one earns upon leaving the parents' nest is actually a cold place to hold back an avalanche. I hate money. It killed my dreams, and even worse, my faith in fairness and goodness. I have meager rest and no peace.

Spinning wheels.
6:12 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


July 28, 2007 6:28 PM, Blogger staticwarp said...

when i read this journal i sometimes feel like i'm reading my own ramblings. i found you thru i serve idiots and i'm currently working my way thru your archives while i'm supposed to be doing actual work. i started on waiter rant and worked my way through a series of links to get here, and the journey has been well worth it. i like this journal better than waiter rant. hope you stick with it.



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