Southern Comfort and Soul Stuff.

"Can't stop what's coming, can't stop what is on it's way..." Just another intoxication. It certainly makes my obsessions clearer. And I speak in very cryptic and obscure sentences. Because for some reason, when I drink, I convince myself that I am plugged into some collective conciousness and those relevant minds hear me. I am however, merely drunk. Still, it would be neat if my mind was really broadcasting this. I suppose blogging it is as close as I'm going to get. Nobody really even reads this. I'm just a drunk girl with stupid theories, talking to herself.

Listening to Peter Murphy. I really like it. I think I've had almost enough Southern Comfort to...I dunno, actually, I've almost finished the bottle. Drinking makes me feel lonlier sometimes. It's almost as if my brain is disappointed that it doesn't get a response when drunk, even though I have no one to talk to but myself. I feel...not all there. But not in an insane way. I feel...partial. Is that normal? Do I make sense, or am I really further gone than I thought?

I think...this is really me. I need to drink and get over all the outward jumble to show my soul. If the soul is really...real. Too bad it's always late and when I'm alone. It makes me love me even more, I am fucking AWESOME. Anyone who disagrees, you are what is wrong with the world. I feel like the bright center of everything. Kiss me, I'm Irish. Or whatever, yeah, I am quite drunk.

My thoughts on country music. It's shit.

This job wouldn't be near as bad if the same mind-numbing country songs weren't played over and over from my bosses offices. Really, if given the choice (which I never am) between country music or none at all, I would pick silence. And there's nothing that makes me feel more irritable and unpatriotic than hearing the shitty twang of a country music rendition of the Star Spangled Banner played every day at noon. Way to ruin the national anthem, people, it sounds like you're singing it out of your assholes.

After Christmas Shittiness

Had a nice holiday, though so many of the family were sick (myself included). Now to tackle the feat of making it through the rest of winter. The endless stretch of cold and dark. After Christmas, all I want to do is curl up in bed or drink. Or curl up in bed AND drink. I've got kids constantly yakking in my ear so I can't form a fucking thought. I used to write poetry when I was down. It was depressing and angsty poetry, but it felt good to create something that represented the shit that I was feeling. Hell if I can do that with Spongebob Fucking Squarepants blasting on the TV.

All I want is Southern Comfort and nachos and to watch back to back episodes of Sherlock by myself. Followed by typing out drunken poetry while listening to the Doors. Maybe light some incense. The only way I get over depression is by wallowing in it. Roboting through it all and pretending it's all okay is not helping. I want to open the front door and scream.