People think I’m an artist.

Posted: November 25, 2010 in hidden admonishment

I sit in my room surrounded by shit. I sleep on the floor amidst my own filth. I rarely bother to cook a meal or do my laundry, and I sit on my computer doing nothing all day. I don’t read the news. I don’t play games. I don’t pursue interests. I sit in my email accounts most of the time wishing that someone cared enough to talk to me. I think about you. There’s nothing stellar about you. You’re an asshole who writes crappy little digs and works at a shit job. Your work was never that great. You’re not all that attractive or insightful. You watch stupid little art films and read annoying books. You drop names to sound more informed, because you don’t want to take ownership of your thoughts if they’ve been thought by someone who someone else might find more credible and important. You can be both then by your own associations.

Yeah, I think about myself.

I haven’t done anything with my life. I haven’t done anything at all. I don’t even paint anymore. My writing is all shit. I work shit jobs. I live with shit people. I stay in my room that I don’t even bother to clean…and I worry.

What if I can’t get past this? What if I never paint anything again? What if I never find a reason to write anything beyond a few boring “I” statements about my shitty mood regarding my shitty life? What if I really am stupid and ugly and awkward and pathetic and there’s nothing else at all? I can’t seem to get my shit together. I can’t seem to see anything but shit with no sense of gathering it into concentrated shitty failure.

I crawled out of my room to go back to work for the second part of my shit split shift day, and I only go to my job to attempt to pay my bills; at least some of them. My housemate was out in the living room with the TV blaring and two men that always try to talk to me as much as she does. Her life is mine. She lives in the same shitty place and works the same sort of shitty job. Actually, her shitty job is too good for me. Her room is clean. She has dogs and cigarettes and men. Her life is much better than mine, because while it’s still rather shitty, she’s at home with her’s and lives it.

I have a stack of really old paintings in the hall that I’ve been meaning to take out to the shed to make room in my studio space for one project that I’m determined must get…started? The old paintings stack up in the hall, but it’s been raining and I’m depressed and have no ambition to clean the other room up and make it into a functional space. If I did, it would have happened months ago. My housemate’s guests commented on how good the paintings were, and I responded quite honestly that they weren’t. They’re crap. They’re complete and utter shit. They’re all turned to the wall so that no one has to look at them. They’re not even paintings. Their assignments and studies and aborted dreams. They’re loathsome things, but these people disagreed with me. Sigh…I wish I could see what they see, but I haven’t done anything in years. I didn’t even write a thesis paper to graduate. I put nothing but unfinished work in my gallery space, and I haven’t even done that much since my release. I haven’t had so much as a spark of genuine interest since before getting “sick” my first time through Sophomore year.

I wish I would just stop struggling if whatever I thought I had is already dead. Why do I stay here if I won’t even move in? Why did I come all this way? Why do I keep all this stuff I don’t even unpack? Why don’t I sell it? Why don’t I live somewhere cheaper if I really want to go back to school? What makes me think I want to go back? What difference will math make? What about Russia?

I can’t even find simple reasons to shower and eat…but it’s not apathy. It’s worse. It’s so much worse.


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