once again, it's time to stop and save my own life.

no one ever does it for me, goddamn it. just once it would be nice for someone to give enough of a shit that they would do it for me--but no one ever does.

maybe that's just the way life is?

to do:
fix car
see doctor
go back to yoga
stop drinking so damn much
go to work
paint more
write more
stay in at night once in a while
stop living so fucking hard


The last one is the toughie.

little kafka at camp

this is awesome.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2003/09/16kafka.html

an excerpt:

"June 18, 1897—I've spent the past two days lost in the woods, on what my counselors call a hike. The concept seems ludicrous and they were brutally unsympathetic to my concerns. The first few minutes are bearable, but I begin to sense that we aren't going anywhere, that our destination is the same lonely, rat-infested hut where we begin. I wonder aloud about the necessity of it all, asking why we couldn't just stay in the cabin and cut out the middleman.
"It's called a hike," they say.
"But why are we doing it? What's the purpose? We end where we start. We start where we end."
"You can look for birds and flowers and stuff," a counselor says.
"I don't understand what you are saying."
"It's nature!" The counselor roars. "Stop being such a freaky weirdo."
I ask questions to get closer to some unknowable truth. The distance just seems to grow.

- - - -

July 1, 1897—My Birthday. I have not told anyone and now that it is approaching midnight, I will not have to. The days are nothing but struggle. Struggle to survive. Some boys had to be stripped down. Whipped in front of everyone. They did not understand how wonderful Camp Schelsen could be. They spit on people. They threw rocks at squirrels. I could not look away. The cruelty was too beautiful. It opened up the universe.

- - - -

July 10,1897—In Arts and Crafts, that humid hut, the teacher stops. He looks down. I look up. I am working on something intricate, something simultaneously nothing and everything. It is made of paper.
"I always wanted you to admire my origami," I say.
"I do. I do admire it."
"Well, you shouldn't," I say.
"You're a weird little dude, Franzie."



hee hee hee hoo ha.....

I was up all night painting.

How do I know? 'Cos my memory is so fucking-up and foggy right now I have no real recollection of, maybe, the last thirty-six hours.

I know because I've begun talking to myself out loud. Can yelling at my peanut butter be far off?

the men who I want to call me,
may not call me,
and I might be alone forever;
but I can paint.
And I guess I can write too; or at least, people are paying me to do it.

I can step back, and look at what I've created, and it's taken so much work and so many years of learning and so much effort and time,
but I've done it well,
and if that is all I ever have,
then well,
fine.

Fine then.

I feel like hunter s. thompson

Saturday: drive to Marina del Rey. Get drunk.
Sunday: wake up hungover after 5 hours of sleep, race to the Brewery with plans to take a trip to the desert, trip is aborted due to friends who are even more hungover than I, start drinkin' at noon, see Radiohead 13 miles from the Mexican border that night, get home at 3 pm, get three hours of sleep.
Monday: race to work to be there before 9. On three hours of sleep. Feel vaguely ill. Leave work at 4 pm because you feel like shit. I wonder why...
Monday night: I have a cold. Have two shots of whiskey--that helps colds, doesn't it? Also knock back some leftover Robitussin. Then go downtown to drink with friends in a seedy hotel bar. Have two drinks. Get pretty blitzed. Get back home, call a boy. He comes over. Get really loaded with him on whiskey with lemonade. Pass out around 2 am.
Tuesday morning, 6 am: Call in sick to work. You really ARE sick. Yes. You have a cold.
You are also hungover, maybe still dizzy, but you definitely ARE sick, ill, and should not be in an office environment right now. No.
Tuesday 10 am: Wake up again, putter around, make eggs and bacon.
Tuesday noon: Cute boy wakes up. Eat breakfast, then drive to beach for coffee. Coffee is good. I cough some. My nose is stuffy. My ears are stuffed up too. I truly DO have a cold. Yep.
Tuesday afternoon: Cute boy rushes off, late for work. Putter around house, feel sick, take nap.
Tuesday night: Woken up by phone call from absolute drunk / brilliant writer whom you fell for and are trying to get over. You have been having a small amount of success at this. He wants a ride to the birthday party for another man you fell in love with and subsequently DID get over, succesfully. When you ask him why he wants a ride he says it is because he wants to get drunk at the party. You can't argue with that. Nap another 15 minutes. Wake up, feel weird, take a Valium.
Later Tuesday night: Pick up said drunkard writer, drive to Barbara's at the Brewery, drink lots of vodka, wear tinfoil hats for birthday party. Laugh a lot. Party breaks up around 11:30. Drive the writer home. He swears he is hammered but seems in complete posession of his faculties.
Really fucking early Wednesday morning: Drink gin and beer with drunk writer at his home while you peruse the internet together. Listen to stories read aloud, discuss writing. Get pretty fucking loaded.
Wednesday morning: Sleep there with the writer. He snores really loud. Ugh. Wake up at six a.m., swig a leftover beer, drive home, leaving the writer there to snore on his own with just the cat. Stop at Rite Aid, coughing, pick up NyQuil and Robitussin and pseudephedrine (decongestant, also a stimulant). Arrive at home, swig the NyQuil and Robitussin, eschew the pseudepedrine 'cos it'll just keep you up. Call work, tell them you'll be in in the afternoon. Your cough is getting worse. Sleep.
Wednesday late morning: Wake up dizzy and swing out of bed feeling like you're waltzing around the room. Wonder how your liver is handling all this. Cough. Call doctor, make appointment. The cough will need to be handled and the only thing that fixes it is codeine syrup, so you have to check in with the dr. for that, as it is a controlled substance. Find your current state amusing, especially since you are reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas right now, and you yourself are seeing things blurrily, squinting to align your vision. Decide it's worth documenting before you go back to sleep, so you write it in your blog.

Sleep again.


I'd also like to confirm that I still have't gotten laid in months. And I'm actually kind of happy about that. So all the "sleeping" documented above really is just that. Sleeping.

For me, right now, it's better this way.