Archive for May, 2012


Posted: May 28, 2012 in hidden admonishment

I don’t like where I live
or where I work
or how much emphasis I have to put on money each month.

I’m still angry with a woman I’ve never met.
I still harbor resentment towards childhood…friends.
They were friends.
I can’t find a way to forgive my sister who has already forgiven herself.
And I want to be happy that she has.

I wish I could.

This weekend was humbling, and it only hit me due to a split second oversight
when I locked myself out of isolation and autonomy.

I don’t know if you ever believed anything I told you or if it would make any difference.



Posted: May 28, 2012 in otiose

Sn…eaked out of house to avoid housemates’ invitation to cookout.
Tried to sleep at a rest stop for four broken hours Sunday morning.
Woke up surrounded by motorcyclists talking merrily about how I must have had a wild night.
Got into a fight with some spoiled rich kids on top of a mountain at dawn.
Took a shit in the middle of the trail for them on my way down.
Stumbled into the strangest town ever filled with almost nothing but affluent gingers and blondes.
Locked myself out of my car on top of a different mountain…keys and phone laughing at me through the window.
Hitched a ride with drunks to a ranger station. Thought I was going to die with every drunken mountain corner.
Had a mini-meltdown.
Kissed a very scrawny seasonal maintenance worker that found me a locksmith.
Tipped the tow truck driver 20% for scratching my car and showing ass crack.
Decided I’d had enough of the mountains and started towards home.
Got sleepy. Afraid of dying. Pulled into an overlook parking lot. Tried to take a nap.
Interrupted by more spoiled rich kids…and then more potbellied bikers.
Drove home with absolute dickwads “sharing” the road.
Had to make smalltalk with my stupid housemates.
Couldn’t sleep.
Came online to stalkerish emails from somebody I fucked around with a flippin’ year ago.

Hate everything.
Need a bath.
Never, ever doing anything on a “holiday” weekend again.

go away

Posted: May 25, 2012 in otiose

Machined white noise kicks up from my overclocked computer tower drowning out the murmuring beyond closed doors
both real and imagined.
I watch the other side of humanity while sitting on a step stool
but I spend most of my time sectioned off
out of sight
with the internal white noise hissing so loud that I forget the right words.
When someone interrupts me with a commonplace question, I ask them to repeat as if I hadn’t heard anything at all
just to buy enough time to fan the words out into a coherent translation.

It’s as if I don’t even speak English anymore.

I spend so much time trying to drown out incessant muttering that I’ve wiped away a little too much.
And I’m not sure I give a fuck.

six month internet hiatus

Posted: May 18, 2012 in otiose

Except to pay bills on the 5th, 9th, 12th, 18th, 25th, and 28th each month.
Yes, I’m aware that the dates are frequent and nicely spaced.
They correspond with my income, because while I am living within my means, I have very little wiggle room from payment to payment.

This may also become the new permanent time table.

The 28th doesn’t actually apply. I don’t pay my rent online.
Also, if I’m doing relatively well, I double up payments.
For example, I’ve already paid next month’s bill for the 9th.

The internet and I need to establish some new boundaries while I make a few important life decisions.

what’s different

Posted: May 17, 2012 in hidden admonishment

My writing isn’t currently worth reading. Few interesting or important issues surface, and most of it suffers from a sloppy, lazy, and aesthetically unappealing structure. I don’t consider myself a writer, and I never have, so these problems alone don’t prompt much alarm.

I constantly put down words for the sake of hindsight, and what I have noticed is what bothers me. The irritation with my writing showed up long before I could pinpoint any cause, and most of the time, I’d rather not write anything because of that.

I annoy myself.

I’ve been writing, not for the wrong reasons, but under counterproductive motives. As a result, I’ve come up with a trite and simple explanation…which I find annoying.

During the most prolific and rewarding resurgence in my writing, I wrote shit down in an attempt to connect and feel close to someone; a genuine action followed by a protracted, but ultimately complete, realization of rejection. Swallowing rejection without entirely self-destructing, but while admitting that I still care a great deal isn’t something I can manage with any sense of grace or efficiency.

I still cry about it, but not every day
several times a day
the way I did before.
The intensity of my reaction to thinking about it
doesn’t fade
and it’s not as simple as thinking about it less.

I think less about myself.
There’s less self-pity
I do things that keep me isolated
and I approach others in a way that keeps me distanced.

If I hadn’t forced myself to keep writing
even though I know what I want isn’t here right now…
If I’d stopped, I would have been able to delude myself indefinitely,
so this shit that isn’t worth reading
helps me.

I just wanted a glimpse.

I fucked up a lot, but…wholeheartedly.
Not from over analysis or semiotics.
Just me…fucking up.

The things I’m doing right now don’t matter much to me.
I don’t care about where I work, or who I live with, or what time it is when I finally fall asleep.
I don’t hate myself, so I direct a lot of what looks like anger outward, but it’s just frustration.

Maybe the words won’t come back.
Maybe I’ll get stuck with my petty jealousies and empty anger
this lack of intimacy
and maybe I’ll successfully trade loneliness for solitude.

I don’t know if it matters.

The three most annoying things to read about that so many incompetent people feel compelled to expound upon:


That is all.