abodyofwaterandabookofmatches;sinkingorburning.

It's a very, well, there is a very, there is, there, well, is, is, well, nevermind.

Maybe I'll never figure it out.

I keep hoping, or maybe even expecting, somehow, oddly, that someone will just come along and be all that I want, and accept all that I fear is wrong with me, which is, mind you, an awful lot, an overwhelming lot. Then, when no one shows, against my expectations, in accord with reason and justice, I become sad, as though love was a foregone conclusion.

What the fuck am I supposed to do; it comes so easily to some and so asphyxiatingly hard to others *coumegh*. I keep thinking that it's going to happen for me how it happens for others, how it happens for everybody else, as though I was just like everybody else. Maybe if I liked football, or if I drank a little less, or had even a hope that I could one day earn above the poverty line, or thought about myself a little less, shaved/bathed/tried more often, then I would get to love, be loved.

Whatever.

Ya know, this whole system is fucked up. I'm in an awful lot of pain right now, but the only thing that hurts worse than being alone is not being alone. When you're alone, you're alone with your failures and your faults, but when you fall in love, you become one with your lover, and the wrongs, the injustices with which you were born are multiplied by your coupling, and you become all that is wrong yourself and your other self. It's sick. Why is it this way, that when two people fall in love, and their egos melt away and they become one human, they become this beastly chimera of desperation and insecurity.

Errrrrrrgghhhhh.

Fuck.

Nevermind. I suppose I am better off without another, despite the loneliness, the crippling, might-yet-prove-fatal loneliness.

I don't want to talk about it.

I'm done. I hope you're all happy with your friends and your lovers and your lives.

Enjoy.

Trying on old clothes.

I've been lonely lately, though I haven't been getting drunk as frequently as I'd like, which is something I intend to remedy tonight. I picked up a pint of my #1 friend after the bar.

First, the loneliness. It's like this, god, ache; a throbbing agony, like the sensation of getting the air knocked out of you that lingers long after you can breathe again. It's just occurred to me that the majority of the posts here are about loneliness; it seems to be a recurring, pervasive aspect of my life. It's almost as though it's something, the only thing, on which I can rely, expect, except this time it just might break me. I have the alcohol to numb me, which helps sometimes, but it doesn't relieve the aching, it just buries it, and it leaves me numb, which isn't much better.

I am so frightened by the notion that I very well could be lonely, alone, for the rest of my life. A friend tells me that everyone feels that way before they meet their next victim, err, partner, but I'm not so sure.

...

Tonight, again (and again) I drink. It sometimes serves to fill in the gaps of this seemingly, obviously, meaningless, empty, life. And again, tonight, I chastise myself for making a fool of myself, for thinking I made a fool of myself. So there's, like, this girl I, like, like, right? Okay! and she's totally cool and she seems like she likes me too, but she could just've been being nice, which is understandable considering she totally doesn't swing that way; but I'm like, ya know, whatever, 'cause I heard from a friend that she would swing that way for the right person, only 'sept they'd have to be the right person, and I'm thinking that maybe I could be that person, 'cause, ya know, I'm cool 'n' stuff.

This girl made me tonight, makes me, giddy like a school-girl. I did, however, truly not present myself in the most becoming fashion, sadly.

Tonight I'm in the mood. No, not that mood; these days I'm rarely in that mood. Tonight I'm in the mood to drink and write. I've got myself a fifth of beam, though it really was more like a sixth or seventh when I bought it, and now it's closer to a tenth or eleventh. Never neither you nor I mind.

I've started drinking whiskey-tonics. I almost exclusively drink whiskey nowadays, and the quinine numbs these pains in my stomach, which are almost undoubtedly because of ulcers in the lining of my stomach caused by all of the coffee I need to drink just to be able to stand up-fucking-straight. I walk on crutches, now.

By and by, I invented a drink. It's just disgusting enough for me to like it...

Organ Grinder

2 oz. espresso
2 oz. well whiskey

stir with a coffee stirrer or cocktail straw, serve tepid.

I think I'm getting sick. I don't think this is a normal sickness, or even necessarily a bodily, physical sickness. Just sick, old, unmotivated.

I suppose this post was supposed to be about loneliness, just as they all are, just as everything, really, is about.

Sometimes I fear I'm not good enough anymore.