look at me darling, it's sad sad sad
my hands are reaching for you everywhere
but you're not there.
tender and tired
Wednesday, January. 19th/ 2000
I'm going out of my fucking mind. "you oughtta hear my long snake moan! ..it's my voodoo workin'" Woke up naked. Considered love and lust. I wuz just thinking about that (hot-but-crack-using) guy I met the other day. And how fucking low is my self-esteem that when he said "you're cute." I had to ask, "Really? How cute do you think I am?" Like Angela fucking Hayes. "You think I'm beautiful? You don't think I'm ordinary?" What a fucking joke. ("this story is old, I know, but it goes on") I don't believe you. Do you mean that? And me being cute, will this get me love? Or will it just get me laid?
i can hardly wait...
In my glass coffin, I am waiting.
In my glass coffin, I am waiting.
"I got static in my head."
I had meant to go out and get me a better job. But I can't even go out. Not far anyway. I hate that I am unrelentingly compelled to come here and fucking write like this. My inner life is going to kill me. I am living entirely in my head, to the point of talking aloud to myself in crowds, when I let myself fall into crowds. Don't talk to me. I'm busy going fucking nuts thinkingthinkingthinking on the same goddamn things over and fucking over again. And this feels so staged, in that even the dangers, even the bad, the edges, the ugly or scary parts seem softened. Like they won't leave scars on me. Oh, that's good. Isn't it? No. I want nothing or I want it all. Kill 'em, fuck 'em and eat 'em, or don't bother at all. Make me feel it. Make me bleed. Be REAL, or stay the fuck away from me.
My boss asked me today if I'm tired. Oh god yes I'm tired. You? "It's been about thirty six hours now," she said, since she slept. I feel bad cuz that makes me feel slightly better.
I read some interview with Douglas Coupland the other day where at some point he seems to just break down and he says to the interviewer "Please tell me you're having an awful time. You are, aren't you? Please tell me your life sucks." That's what this is like. Someone please tell me they are going through the same hell. Please tell me your life is a vaccumn. Please tell me you're on the fucking edge and you don't know what to fucking do.
Then she asked me, "Are you getting bored?"
Is it obvious? What a question.
I think I need to go do some crazy selfless thing like- volunteer work with retards. Take me out of myself. I realize the reason I can't get certain things out of my fucking head (about 50 times today alone, mumbled aloud, said aloud, yelled aloud 'Get. Out. Of. My. Head!') is because there is nothing else there. And this, relatively insignificant (I tell myself), thing is HUGE, and dominating every fucking bit of my conciousness. Subconscience. Waking. Dreaming. Every fucking moment of every fucking day. I have no concept of time. How long have I been, quite literally, quite thoroughly obsessing on this? (a history of mental disorders, you wouldn't shut up enough to hear of even if she wuz willing to talk)
still early day right now. home to oblivion I am thinking how ecstatically happy it would make me to spend a day downtown, walking around alone, handing out resumes, singing and talking to myself, then going over to Nadya's in the evening. Making some dinner, watching a movie, talking with Nadya. Thinking about that is making me.. all weepy, I know it would make me so happy. (" I know we could be so happy, if we wanted to be ") So simple. And I need it.
And I want to come home to a warm bed. I've been sleeping with a hot water bottle, hugged to my chest. It's always cold by morning. It doesn't talk. And it doesn't hug me back. I'm getting ..bored. (getting?)
Shake it all off. Shake it off.
"Slept in the graveyard, it was cool and still..."
"ah honey I know it's not allowed to say I got you bad"
'my heart is like the ocean, it gets in the way'