I seem to write when I am bothered. Joy doesn't make the pages, as if it somehow slips away through the cracks. It is life's depressing, difficult, and sad moments that inspire me to talk to myself. I do know nobody else is fucking reading this, so that's what I am doing...blowing warm smoke up my own private region.
Dana loves me. I know she does. Whether or not it's for the right reasons, or for who I am or who she thinks I can be, or who she wants me to be, I'm at a complete loss. We fight a lot, over stupid shit. Over me not wanting to be an ex smoker, about me wanting my piercings, about how those things will have little effect when it comes time to get married and have a family... that I will only start swinging the bat when I get ready to walk up to the plate. She brings joy and pain. Joy when she is trusting-- when she is her --and pain when she doubts us and when we argue about this stupid shit all the time. We are so good together, and so happy, and so bad together, and so stressed from it all.
It's pretty lame how life can throw things out of orbit just to spite me. I'm told I'm everything she wants for the rest of her life. But there are things that she subtly hints that she wants changed. I'm just a normal guy with a weakness for addicting activities and substances, and a tendency towards depression. How the hell am *I* going to be a good father/husband. I don't see it, hope she's right. But when I think about it it's waaaaaay too early to look towards that shit-- she's moving to North Carolina, and I am on the other end of the country. She thinks she needs this Mini Ivy League edjucation, and while I said I would follow her, she wants me to stay and wait for a year. Frikken A, it's 12:40 and I'm up at 6:00 am for work tomarrow. STUPID.
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