And summer has officially begun. I still have no idea where I’ll be for the majority of it, but it looks like I’ve got another soy-filled summer in my future. Each day the painted turtle doesn’t get back to me, the farther away California dreamin’ seems to get. Now I’ve got a stomach ache and I’m sitting in my roommates inflatable bed, waiting for some kind of inspiration to hit. 

Nope. It ain’t coming. 

I wish this year had ended on a better note, but not only am I currently alone, but I feel isolated and hurt, and a little bit confused. Alone seems like such a temporary, small word in the most cases, but today it feels like this big looming presence that’s casting a big shadow over my mood. I literally feel alone, like a visceral feeling in my gut. Or perhaps that’s the stomach ache. 

I thought writing this down would help, but all I’m doing is adding logs of bad metaphors to the fire. I hope this summer perks up. I hope I get back whatever sparkle I lost. 

LOST: One sparkle. 

Please return.

I think there’s too much these days. “Too much what?” you ask? Just too much. I think the issue is as simple as that. It’s a frightening paradox of life that we’re constantly striving for more, when the real problem is all we have. We’re constantly told “less is more, less is more” but we’re just given more and more every day. Too much advice I say. Too much pressure to be successful, too much pressure to have, too much pressure to be pretty, too much pressure to be smart, too much pressure to be PC, too much pressure to have it all figured out, and you have to wonder eventually when it all just slows down or when you get a breather or if it ever just all stops. Stops. My writing isn’t narrative enough. It’s too explorative. Too much. Too much exploring? I felt the need to write, and this is all I have. All I have, and that’s certainly not too much, but I’m spent. I’m spent on writing, and sometimes I feel like I’ll never be able to write well, or be successful at it, and life just seems so much scarier than it did when real life was lightyears away from me. When did it all become too much?

Less and less people seem to care about this blog. Which is just fine by me, because it lessens up the pressure to write more often. It also makes me feel like I can write about whatever I want without offending any of the people who might be reading. I suppose this has been true all along, but now it feels just that much more tangible.

I hate Jews! and black people! and homosexuals!

Hope that shows up in a google search sometime soon. I can’t hardly wait.

I really should be writing more. 

being a writer and all.

I really want to write something angry and unappealing right now. I should be working on whatever I need to be working on, but it’s hard to focus when you’re full of angst. I feel like I’ve outgrown being this upset about trivial things, but it’s my personal belief right now that people don’t actually ever stop being petty or sensitive, they just get better at hiding it. So I’ve secluded myself from the world for a moment, trying to get my bearings and catch my breath before I have to go out again and play grown up and seem like everything is alright. I’m ashamed, mostly because I shouldn’t be feeling what I am, and I shouldn’t even really be ashamed, but as you can see my mind is running on a spin cycle right now, so I can’t really keep any of these justifications still long enough to remember what I’m justifying.

My world right now is just one big run on sentence right now.

All I can ever think lately is that there is something wrong with me. And what’s more interesting than my own self pity is how it all seems to be reflected back at me this past weekend. 

I feel like this weekend is just going to be one big case study in how to be self-destructive.

Here’s the thing. There’s nothing witty about this post, just a lot of me, talking about me, in an unwitty fashion. The unwitty fashion is really the only thing that differs from my normal posts. 

So I really want to get another piercing before I leave across the pond, and I have several options. I’m already planning on getting another tattoo while I’m over there, but I think the piercing is something I’m going to get when I get home in August. Let’s discuss, shall we?

industrial

 This one is probably in the frontrunning. While this look is good for some, I’m a bit nervous that it may make my already skinny head look even more awkward than it already appears. I’ve also heard that it’s one of the most painful piercing that you can get. Not that I’m afraid of pain. 

 

eyebrow

Carl had one of these. I’m not even sure I’m seriously considering this one, however the thought has crossed my mind. This would be a big step for me. It’s so… Abrasive.

here’s another one I’m only mildly considering. I really get nervous whenever I think of a cancor sore… So I’m not sure how good I feel about a piece of metal sticking through my lip.

Or should I just get my ear pierced? Choices… choices…

To be honest. I probably won’t get anything pierced. I’m a big ol’ pussy who doesn’t really think he needs a piercing.

 

I’m in the midst of a creative crisis.
I never want to write anything. Ever again.

This weekend was chock (chalk?) full of blog worthy anecdotes, I’m sure. However the words just ain’t flowin’ as easily as they usually do tonight.

It’s hard to encapsulate the feelings that can wash over you after realizing how just a simple touch can sometimes spark something inside of yourself that you forgotten about, especially in the long absence of such a touch. 

No. Not an erection.

I just deleted a post talking about how racist I am. 

I deleted it probably because it revealed a little bit too much of how racist I really am. Call me a coward, but sometimes too much honesty may get a blogger lynched. 

However I think something we all need to realize is that we all really are just a little bit racist. 

From the mouths of puppets indeed.