gone fishin' for sympathies.

I've been listening to The Good Life again.
People who don't know me don't know what that implies. Even those who do know me don't know what that means. I don't know what it means.

I don't know what what means?

Nothing.

What does it mean that I don't have any friends, can't get a job, have no money, have no direction, have no creativity, have no life/future/ambition/empathy/passion/ideas/talent(useful or real, but not both)/energy/determination/life?

Somedays I feel good about myself. Other days I just can't see why I should.

For years I've been playing this game with myself. I imagine that there was a time in my life when I had a spark of genius, an enviable intellect, an intelligence that was all mine and was something to be proud of, and that I have lost it. Year after year I believe that I used to be smarter the year before, and that now I'm no longer capable. This is of course never true; but that's what it feels like now, and what if it's true this time? What if now when I play this game it's real, and I really am less intelligent than I used to be? Or worse yet, what if I never was smart, what if I was always merely capable of affecting intelligence to a degree sufficient enough to fool some people into believing in something that didn't exist. Heads of church and state do it all the time, and they're generally no more intelligent than the average Joe.

This is terrible, I know, and pathetic and manipulative of those whom, for some reason beyond my ability to understand, still love me enough to read this fucking thing. I'm sorry, I can't help it. I'm awfully lonesome here in my blue room with my gray computer and my brown whiskey.

I guess I shouldn't be going on and on like this, as one day it's possible that I really won't have any friends, and boy won't I then be sorry. I'll eat my words like a roast beef sandwich. Err, sorry, a Tofurky™ brand mock roast beef sandwich. And they'll be delicious. With some tomatoes and a little vegenaise, it'll be so good.

Fuck it.

That's another thing. I no longer know how I feel about profanity.

I don't know where I was going with that last line.

It's funny, these days I spend my time absorbed in political or philosophical thought. Not like in a pretentious, "smart" sort of way. Far be such behaviour from me. No, the way I think about politics and philosophy is much more plebian, it's like full-contact academia. It usually envolves me smashing books together.

I had a white russian earlier, and I've decided that I don't like them.

K, I've either worked through all of the things I wanted to say, or I've got far too many things to say to even feign the motivation to try to catalogue them now, here.

I'm going to make something involving coconut rum, celestial seasonings chai and silk soy creamer (french vanilla), and hope my mom doesn't wake up while I do it. This place is hell. I'm fifteen years old.

Funemployment is over-rated.

It's like a spark, or a collision, or a tangle of one too many chords for our personal electronic devices, and it gets pulled tighter and tighter until it's hopelessly ensnared. Yeah, I suppose it's like that. D'you know that point, when you're trying to untangle some stupid knot, and you just can't get it unraveled, when it just won't come undone for you, and you sit there, determined and frustrated with a ball of knotted yarn in your hands, and you keep picking and picking at the knot, and pulling thoughtlessly at the endless strands, and all you have left is a prayer that eventually all of it will become undone soon so that you can get on with knitting some stupid hat to keep you warm because you can't afford a fucking two-dollar beanie at a dollar-store, and the more you try, the more you pull, the tighter the knotted ball gets, and the more you just want to fucking pull your hair out and throw it all away, the yarn, the needles, the whole of it?

That's unemployment.

I try, I do, to do beautiful things, to be a beautiful person. Today I did something for somebody I love, and I like to think it was a beautiful thing, less so because of what it was, and more so because I did it to try to make her believe she is as lovable, beautiful, as I know she is.

What does it take? What amount of whatever it is I don't possess must I learn to feign before I can get a job that will allow me to make enough money to drink myself to sleep every-once-and-a-while?

I don't know, I know that the majority of what I bitch about here nowadays is unemployment, but seriously, this sucks. It's really hard to feel good enough about yourself to get a job when you're not enough of whatever it is you need to get a job. Really, I'm either way too over-qualified, or way to under-qualified, I guess. Either way I end up hungry and achingly curled-up and stressed-out and fucked-up from nicotine and alcohol withdrawal.

I just want to not be me anymore.

Irre(vere)(leva)nt inconsequentia.

Hello all,
I don't really know why I'm writing this, I mean, I'm not drunk or anything, and I don't even believe myself to have anything noteworthy on which to, well, um, note.

There's this guy who's always hanging around the bar I happen to frequent, and
he drinks until he's drunk, and then once he's drunk he likes to proselytize to all of us sinners. He told me he would pray for my soul while he held my hand so tightly he made me believe for just one moment that my soul even stood a chance. It doesn't even have a chance in hell.

Sometimes I get embarrassed when I don't feel I'm making as good an impression on someone as I feel I should, or should be able to. I suppose that makes me no different than many, but still it doesn't seem like other people get so shy.

I don't know, dudes, I think that's about it.

Pray for me, or at least that I may get a job sometime soon. Dire straits, surely.

Willie.

Over-caffeinated and under-employed.

So, I need to raise $3000 dollars by about may or june, and I have no qualms with the idea of getting it by the sweat of my brow, so to speak, but I just need to find some form of employment that will afford me such a modest amount. Keep in mind that I'll probably spend at least half of what I make on booze and shiny things, so I need to actually make around $6000, which equates to around $1000-$1200/month. This is, as I figure it, 25-30hrs/week@$10/hr or 20-25hrs/week@$12/hr, or at worst 30-35hrs/week@$8/hr. I know that beggars should try not to be choosers, but I think I'm worth at least $8/hr, so I'm not going to work for less than that. I mean, even the worst job I've ever had payed at least $8/hr. Hopefully I'll be making tips, too, which would ideally make my hourly pay approximately >$10/hr. Okay, so now that I've covered the logistics, all I need is a J-O-B. What do y'alls think of the idea of me working atthis place? It wouldn't entirely be like selling my soul, and although I'm not really confrontational enough for things like that, I figure it being all over the phone would help a bit with my "stage fright." Or perhaps I could work at a place like this. I don't even know what it's all about, but it sounds pretty rockin', doesn't it? I don't know, help me out, guys and gals, what do you think? I really want to work in a coffee shop, so if anyone reading this right now happens to, ya know, like, say, own a coffee shop, or at least manage one with such a degree of authority that they could get me hired, then please consider me for employment:) Pipe dreams. Which reminds me, I'm going to go smoke, and finish this post later.

K, I'm back. So, yeah, any thoughts from people would be appreciated. Seriously, tell me what you think. I can be reached here or here.

In other news, there are a few new people with whom I've fallen in love. I'm pretty excited about that.

I am digging graves.

Lately I've been spending my time with someone from a past life. There hasn't been much to it, this us hanging out, and at the same time there has been so much. I don't know why, but she's helped me believe in myself again, or maybe not again, maybe for the first time. No, probably not the first time, but the first time in what feels like a long time. I'm starting to dream again. Real good ones, too. I'm not referring to the sleepy-time kind, I'm referring to the "this is what I want to do with my life" kind of dreams, the kind that all the kindergarten teachers tell you to hold onto and never let go of, or, err, onto which to hold and of which to never let go.

I dream of space. Space that's mine and mine to share with everyone. A place where I can share the things I have and the things I know and the things I know how to do and where others can share with me and with everyone else, too. A place where everyone can learn and teach and create and express and help and love. I think the word I'm looking for is community. I dream of community, true community. I've been reading and learning a lot about the idea that one's intentions and one's desires manifest themselves into one's realities. If this is true, if there really is some cosmic, universal force helping us all out, then this is my intention; this is my desire, my dream. The rest is up to the universe.

I swear on whatever there is left for us agnostics to believe in that I have not, in fact, turned into a hippie.

A friend of mine said to me recently that he wanted to get a job digging graves. He has the build for it, he said. Strong back, broad shoulders, an unhealthy fascination with his own mortality. Yeah, I should be a grave digger, too, I thought. I can dig a grave for everyone I've ever been and bury them deeply within myself where they'll nourish the seeds I planted there beside my ghosts and old despair and I'll grow myself a better world.

I am digging graves. I hope my back is strong enough.