Serious Things and Stuff

Alright, so today I feel a bit less desperate and depressed. I'm sick with a nasty but run-of-the-mill common cold, so that may have lent a little to my being so down in the shitter last night. I didn't do much packing or cleaning today, I had planned to do both, but FUNK DAT. I'm recovering, bitches.

My family is about to move. I'm anxious and excited half of the time, then I find myself uneasy and worried. It's about half the size of the townhouse we're in now. Which is fine, we've gotten rid of a shit load of stuff we don't need. It's not an issue of where our stuff will go. It's going to be the four of us crammed into a smaller area, getting into each other's faces. What I'm hoping is that the kids will want to play outside more. The yard and decks on this house are fucking amazing.

I'm taking more time off from school, too, and I worry that my family will assume I've given up. This time it will be a year, only because what with all the house hunting related whatnot, I stupidly missed that the college needed some extra paperwork for my financial aid. I thought I had everything done, FAFSA was completed and all, but, whatever. The deadline has passed. Maybe this extra time is something I need, though. I'll be unpacking and getting used to a new house, getting used to BOTH kids being in school this year (finally), and hopefully I can find a new job. I'll pick back up with school and I will slay it into the mother fucking ground, dammit. I will have my Bachelors. Someday.

I've gotten the notion into my head again that it might not be too late for me to be a writer. I mean, writing is the thing in this life that I enjoy most. Why can't I do that for a living? Maybe I'm no good at it. I've thought about that. I really haven't gotten feedback from anyone who isn't friends or family, and they will say it's good even if it's shit. Because they love me. Or they're afraid of hurting my feelings. And I totally get that, I have a hard time critiquing anything done by someone I care about. But also, I'm a bit conflicted about trying to "sell" my writing. I write because I can't not. It's like pooping. I ingest so much stimuli during the day and need to excrete it periodically in the form of words. If I don't write, it is a form of constipation. But really, who would pay to see this shit? Pun Fucking Intended.

Less than fuzzy feelings

I don't know what. Really, I'm sitting here feeling things and not feeling anything. I am down. I am really fucking down. I'm going through motions, but I don't have anyone to talk to about it that will really hear me and care. Everyone has their own shit going on, I understand that, so I write it down to feel some temporary relief. Things are happening that should make me happy, but instead I can't feel anything but confusion and indifference. The only things I do that hold any meaning for me is reading and writing. And maybe music and movies...by myself. I just can't force myself to enjoy doing things. I turn all of my limited energy inwards. I try to keep myself moving along, doing the things I'm supposed to be doing, trying to feel busy and efficient. It's like being on a treadmill. I put in some effort, but I don't feel like I'm getting anywhere.

Several times today, I've felt as if I was the only person alive. As if everyone I see are ghosts, figments, flat characters. They talk, they interact, but there is nothing said with meaning. I can agree with them, talk to them, but it's almost as if I'm talking to myself. I feel like life is a dream sometimes, like I'm going to wake up anytime and say, "None of that shit made any sense."

Great Plans

I just woke up from a nap, disoriented as hell and I can't remember what I dreamed about. But it put me in a mood. I had Great Plans to drink and come up with some witty and/or angst-filled poetry. OR! Or I could watch a movie. One that has great meaning and will leave me feeling either fulfilled or disturbed (either way, it would be worth it). Tonight was going to be one of the great alone nights. One of those heart-wrenching or life-shaking or even eye-opening but definitely alcohol-induced nights for me and me alone. But then I napped.

Why did I nap? I wasn't even really that tired. The hope fell away and now I'm trying. I'm really trying to get it back. See? I've got the first drink washed down, which is why my fingers even started to type this nonsense.

Tonight held the promise of being extraordinary, but the ordinary ho hum broke in while I was sleeping. Oh, that mother fucker. This calls for another drink. Everything calls for another drink. The end of the last drink calls for another drink. Oh, to be able to quit my job and spend the rest of my life on drunken adventures and sleeping in. How much poetry do you think would be written? Well, I'll tell you. Lots. I think I am feeling my Great Plans for tonight returning.

Something New. Soon.

If I don't do something worthwhile, create something NEW, soon, my soul will atrophy and die. I will be doomed to shuffle around bored, always in awe of what has been done by others, but never be a source of something fresh and amazing. I don't want to be another this or that. Same shit, different person. No. I want to be the proud owner of an Idea, of something that is purely Me but vibrates through the being of Everyone. I hope this random capitalization of words is lending emphasis to what I'm trying to convey as muy importante instead of making me seem an illiterate douche.

On another note, this is the second time I've used the word "atrophy" today in a sentence. Not that I'm keeping track. Okay, I am.

Recycled Dreams

I had a vivid dream last night. Most of it has faded, but I seem to have recycled the setting and characters. I don't really know if this is a recurring dream since I don't remember exactly what the other dreams were about, but here's the one from last night (or as much as I can recall after waiting four hours to write it down).

:: Jenny's Dream Sequence ::

There was a mountain without trees. A few dirt roads crisscrossing the side, dotted with old trailers, junk cars and clothes lines full of sheets in the yards. The homes were distantly spaced, with large grass and dirt fields between them. The area was populated by the elderly, save for one guy who was maybe in his 20's. He rode around on a dirt bike. I've had dreams in this setting before, with the same character, but his appearance is always changing to match that of someone I've seen in a movie or in life. In this dream, he had the appearance of the actor that played Tomas in the movie I Am Dina, which I just watched last week.

The people that lived here were being blocked from the rest of society. I was trying to get to the residents there, because I apparently had some sort of connection with them, but there were blockades at the base of the mountain and armed guards. The male younger character made it out and together we tried to evade the guards and save the elderly people of the mountain.

This is all I remember.

:: End of dream sequence ::

10 things that are wrong with me:

1. I'm too concerned with what others are thinking. I can't read minds, dammit.
2. I obsess over things that I have no control over. Worry worry worry.
3. I can't control myself. When I want something, I indulge.
4. Weight. I feel like someone awkwardly wearing a fat suit. Not right in my own skin.
5. Teeth. Not wanting to stay in one piece. Crooked as hell. Overbite.
6. Conflicting views about the way the world works. Trying hard to be rational. Horribly sentimental. I try to give deeper meaning to things that are probably trivial.
7. Drink too fucking much. Drunk right now. Always need a vice.
8. Prone to depression. No will, no energy, just shit.
9. Lazy and messy. Procrastinator.
10. I make stupid lists.