12:22 and counting

I'd express the meloncolie I feel, but it's not really worth it. I've been listening to a song by Bob Schneider that made me sit and think of all the things that have shaped me... the time I got arrested in Italy, and when I got together with Valentina, had a beautiful time with her, yet never saw her again... and all those times I wont ever mention aloud again. I need something new, a new page or something. I need to leave this town, but I probably wont. I sit here reading books and feeling sorry for myself, most the time anyway. I get these really good ideas, then I just let them go.

I'm not depressed like that one time-- I don't drink anymore, so that's not possible. But I do have a constant coffee taste in my mouth from drinking that vile shit from Denny's late at night. I think they could degrease bearings with that coffee, and I'm more than sure there are worse chemicals in it than the cigarettes I quit a while ago. I need to head out to Southeast Oregon for a few days and camp out in the desert and meditate. I have been neglecting my meditations, yoga and dharma. No wonder I've been in a bit of a funk lately. Life's a big whatever anyway, right?

It's kind of funny how Christmas is draining me more than anything this year. I've had some strange Christmas weeks, one involving gambling on the Eve, and Ste and I suffering from hangovers on the Big Day itself, and the year before that with my sister in the hospital, near death infected with a parasite from Australia, so while this year doesn't top it off, it is uniquely fucked up in its own way. My apartment is really cold, though not as cold as when Bryce and I lived together, but much more lonely. I cook rice if I'm feeling festive, as there's no reason to cook anything special for one person. Maybe I should check out those mail order bride deals... aren't the girls Russian? and doesn't Russians all have Siphalis? Maybe I should stick to waiting for that girl with dreadlocks at the pizza place downtown to ask me out.

So time just keeps slipping by, muttering as it goes, saying something important, and I suppose I'm missing it. I have so many asperations, so many passions- good ones- and yet I get very few of them done. I get by doing the least ammount of shit I can to survive. I eat as little as I have to in order to be healthy, I clean only as often as I must to keep my house in order, and I study just enough to get by. I got a 4.0 last quarter, not because I tried, but because I got lucky on the finals. I'm hungry, but heating up some rice will fill my stomach until 4 a.m., and by noon when I get up, I will have passed the hunger stange. I will be able to wait 'till 3 or so before I have to make breakfast. The worst part of all this is I hate being this way. I am trying to gravitate towards a better lifestyle, but I keep fucking it up. Just when I almost develope a solid routine, I fall back into my old rhythms.

I wrote this the other day. I really want to write a book, but I'm just not there yet. I need to actually do something with my life in order to write a story. I realize that there is a reason most good authors are old and decrepid. We might as well call this Chapter One, Attempt Number 186.

"I want to write a fucked up story. I want to tell a tale that makes people think their trivial lives are not as bad as they really are. I want people to feel that their lives aren’t ridiculous and pointless. I want people to believe that they don’t suck at life. But this isn’t possible without telling lies. The truth is almost every person in this ingrown little existence – which we selfishly go on living without consideration to anything, or anyone else, polluting the rivers, oceans, forests, and cities -- is not worth the shit under my shoe. Yes, there is shit on my shoe. It’s caked on there from earlier today. I’ll tell you about that later. Right now I want rant about all the imperfections all around me that piss me off. Like the bitch that stole my job. I’m staring right at here right now. She makes really good coffee, and that pisses me off too. Don’t tell me that I will be laughing about it later; I won’t. I was once told that I’m in love with my own misery.
I live in a tourist town that we might as well call the new Aspen. It’s not Aspen, but it’s starting to be littered with a bunch of wealthy, worthless Californians. I really don’t like them much. Yesterday I almost wrecked while flipping off a driver with California plates. I tell them to come home, but they just keep on proliferating in the town, raising prices and lowering the quality of life. That’s right; they’re my scapegoat for all the rotten shit that goes down."

Well, I'll go read books from people who actually have something to say or a story to tell. Besides, I've been listening to this same song that has kept me in this sad, reflective mood over and over for too long now.

At least I wasn't convicted.