It ain’t fiction, just a natural fact…

Put me in public

And I’ll have panic attacks.

Thank you Paula Abdul for that little ear worm. Anywho…

Mental recovery from my latest fall into the deep-end is going as well as to be expected. I took an intentional disassociation day today (read: I played video games all day) and listened to old episodes of “What Happened” on Youtube. I’m a big fan of the show and highly recommend it. Something about watching the turmoil and, in many cases, failures of these projects actually makes me want to work on my own shit. In spite of the less than pleasant consequences for some of the studios associated with these projects, it’s a lovely reminder that failure isn’t the end and dreaming about success does little to nothing for me. What matters is producing things. It’s a nice little reminder to hold onto.

What isn’t so nice is one of the things I’ve been doing my best not to think about. Long story short, I sent an apology to that friend of mine I didn’t say a word to and, well, that was not the move. Because it was entirely based off of feelings and ideas in my own mind, rather than anything based in reality, I now, I’m sure, look like an absolute crazy person. I sent my apology, took a nap, then sent an apology for my apology just to put another nail into that coffin.

It reminds of many years ago in college when I was out shooting pool and having a few drinks with my roommates and this girl I was interested in. I was super flirty throughout the night. Driving her back to her place though, I felt the need to apologize for my behavior. It never occurred to me that she might be interested in me as well. In my mind, as usual, I couldn’t fathom someone actually wanting to date me. I became ashamed of my flirty behavior, convinced that I’d made her uncomfortable and potentially ruined her night. After all, while everyone loves attention, when it comes from the wrong person, it’s gross and it’s harassment and that’s all attention from me would be seen as—or so I always told myself.

I apologized and dropped her off. Needless to say, all I really did was flirt with someone all night then told her I didn’t mean it.

Definitely not a win.

In this instance, I’m sure I’ve shot myself in the foot again. I only hope that she can recognize that I’m just a bit broken upstairs and that it’s nothing she did. I hate that I made her uncomfortable, because that certainly was never my intent. She was one of my favorite people to talk to, even if all we really did was shoot memes back and forth. Hell, I got to where I looked forward to waking up and seeing all the memes she’d sent me over the day. Maybe that will return. I’m not holding my breath because that just makes my brain work even worse than it already does. I deleted the conversation just to keep myself from seeing it and have placed the ball in her court, so to speak.

I haven’t learned a lot, but I have learned that when I act out in some manner or another or when I have a panic attack and do something stupid, I can’t fix it. I can apologize, but I can’t undo letting out the crazy. I just have to leave it up to them if their willing to risk having to witness the crazy again and to not hold it against them if they’re not.

I don’t like dealing with me, so it’d be more than a little fucked up to get mad at someone else for not being willing to.

Dicks for listening.

I'm bad...

But like, not in a good way…

Made it to the wedding. Even if I had to bail during the cocktail hour prior to the reception, I'm still proud of myself. The car ride back to Mom's to pick-up Emi was filled with tears and the usual onslaught of negative feelings, but I didn't hyperventilate, so there's that.

This go round the focus seemed to be around what I lacked. It felt very much like the drop, the sudden disassociation I'd have back when I drank. I felt the start of it during the cocktail hour--particularly after a friend of mine, one of the bridesmaids, arrived ahead of the bride. Here's the thing: I talk to this friend pretty much everyday. I don't see her very often, but we share memes and communicate, like I said, pretty much everyday. Tonight though, seated there at a table tucked into this little alcove near the bathrooms, I saw her and couldn't bring myself to go talk to her. There was this fear that I would approach her and it would all go wrong. It was like she was a beautiful stranger and not someone I've known for years.

There was fear, there was shame. I forced myself to focus on what I was sketching and tried my best to just dissociate from the whole scene. The plan was to just try and make it to the arrival of the bride, congratulate her, and then dash. Unfortunately I didn't make it that long. I skated out and then headed to Mom's--the drive there filled with me fighting tears and trying not to tear into myself too bad.

Like I said, this spiral focused on what I don't have: meaningful attachments. Don't get me wrong, I know I have more than my fair share of opportunities to have these. This is entirely a "me" issue. I don't know how to form deep meaningful attachments, and I'm afraid I'm at a point in my life where I may not be able to. My entire life I've felt like a fifth wheel, like my presence didn't really make much of a difference. The idea of someone missing me is bizarre. Even as a little kid, my grandparents would say that they missed me and I couldn't quite understand the significance of their saying that. Even though I think of people all the time, it seems strange that someone would think of me.

After I left the wedding, I started to wonder if it would really be noticed. More than anything, I thought about the friend I couldn't approach. Like me, social situations drain her, and I wondered if she had been hoping to see me--knowing that I would be there. I wondered if it would have been a relief to her knowing that I was there, if I could have been an anchor for her. Obviously, this is all fantasy. I wanted, needed a purpose. Being there wasn't/couldn't have been enough.

Still, it was a nice thought.

Dicks for listening

Meds back on board…

Everything is better. Not really, but I took my meds later that day, jerked off, and felt a bit better about life. I’m still anxious about the wedding, but I’m at least able to keep myself from spiraling.

I downloaded Habitica again. It feels so foolish to be struggling to get my shit together at 39, but better late than never suppose. If I’m going to dedicate to actually using my life, getting my shit somewhat together is mandatory. If it works—I hope it works—if it works then good fucking play.

I will say it at least has, however temporarily, returned a bit of zest to my outlook towards the future. The stories I want to tell seem more tangible. I really feel like I’m doing what I’m doing. Does that make sense? Probably not, but the point remains. I see the comics coming together and it’s a good feeling, certainly a better one than another doom spiral.

Dicks for listening.

I can always tell when I’ve forgotten my meds…

The desire to die is much stronger. I’m also a lot hornier, but that’s neither here nor there. The despair is the problem.

I have a wedding I agreed to attend at the end of this week and, as expected, I am deeply regretting this decision. I very much would like to do the normal, good friend sort of things for people I care about, but some things are just deeply, deeply difficult. Weddings are one of those. There’s just too much happiness happening, too much smiling and laughter and joy. It makes me so uncomfortable. Worse than that though, I become even more acutely aware at how I’m not necessarily a part of things. I’ve long felt like a fifth wheel in any given situation, even one where only 2 people are involved. I don’t grasp how friendships and relationships work. They require too much trust, too much taken for granted.

The culmination of all of this though is that on a day that is incredibly special for someone I really do care about, I can’t stop thinking about myself…

Agreeing to go was a mistake. It’s one I’ll have to live with, but hopefully I’ll be able to minimize damage by bailing before the reception. Get in, witness the ceremony, wish her and her husband a marvelous marriage and then get the hell out.

Ugh, this would be so much easier to deal with if I was dead…

That is how all of it starts to spiral mind you. Ever since 8th grade when Joe hung himself in his parents basement and the idea of actually taking one’s life became a reality to me. Joe killed himself and it was just like, “Holy shit, that really is an option. Well, know what my plan B is from here on out.”

And it’s never really changed.

It’s a wonder I’ve never actually tried to kill myself, but, given a history of being more than a bit of a coward, not entirely surprising. Contrary to what some people might say, suicide requires conviction and commitment. It requires making a definitive decision with one’s life. I’ve never had the strength or courage to do that. Sure, I want things, but I never really go after them. I don’t even say them out loud. The fear of failure, of becoming exactly who I’ve told myself I am for as long as I can remember, keeps from really trying. I haven’t killed myself for the same reason I haven’t really tried dating ever since my first relationship ended oh so many years ago, for the same reason I never really dedicated myself to having a career in art: I’m a coward. I’m afraid of the failure, of truly not being good enough. I’ve kept myself alive with the lie that I’m special and avoided anything that might suggest otherwise.

I really am a fucking disappointment…

I should also probably take my meds.

Dicks for listening.

I got the key key

To Grammercy Park,

Alright, so here’s how the thinking went: it started with binging some “What Happened?” while meal-prepping. I’m watching it and I start to think that I should really consider setting some deadlines for projects over the next decade. I should break down the tasks and and get, if not a set schedule, than at least an idea as to how to proceed with some deadlines. I’m thinking about deadlines, that loses some letters, gains a y and then, wouldn’t you know it, I’m thinking of Deadsy and the one song by them I know.

My non-sequiturs aren’t really as non-sequitur as they seem. Stupid? Absolutely, but they follow a path.

But yeah, so I’m trying to figure out some deadlines for the next decade. I’ve set them before, but I’ve never really tried to stick with them—at least it doesn’t feel like I have. Truthfully, I very well may have set them, tried, and failed. I, however, am choosing not to believe that that is what happened. The idea that I never really tried, regardless as to whether or not that’s true, brings me joy and conviction that I can set deadlines and follow them.

I truly do believe I can and will complete a great deal of stories/ essays/ pieces if I focus and consistently work towards it. I just need to, as I said, focus.

Perhaps it’s a fool’s errant. I’m going to try it anyways.

Dicks for listening!

Insert Staind Song Title Here…

I’m talking about Mudshovel. Obviously.

What is it about purging images from Instagram that just feels so goddamn good? I’m not certain, but it’s always a bit of a treat. Following Meta’s AI nonsense, I decided to just go ahead and wipe that content from my profile. I consider this a win in my general discontent with social media in general.

I’ve spoken about this before, but I am not fond of social media and the feelings I get while on it. The memes are lovely and I genuinely enjoy the ease with which I’m able to connect and reconnect with friends on social media, I get almost nothing but negative feelings about my art. Look, I recognize that I’m not that little kid with his whole life ahead of him, and I’m aware as to just how unrealistic my dreams were/are, but trying to post art and connect on social media is just so goddamn demeaning. Seeing so many younger artists getting seen and having their careers grow in ways mine never did just crushes my mood. I don’t want to be bitter, and I am genuinely happy to see people pursuing their dreams and having them come true. I’m more than aware at how self-defeating I’ve been with my own, but being reminded about it every time I open the apps has gotten old.

I’m not quitting art though. I wouldn’t dream of it. It really is about the only reason I see for staying alive so, I’ll keep on keeping on.

Speaking of art, I’ve been toying again (and again and again) with the idea of pushing myself to do more digitally—specifically when it comes to comics. I’m genuinely a little torn on this as I’d like to produce more/ go faster—something I believe digital can help with— but I also love working traditionally. I’ve told myself I’d finish up MTC and Un Chien and see how I feel about it with 2 comics in the bag. If I still want to go digital, I’ll invest, otherwise I’ll stick with traditional.

In any case, dicks for listening.

Eat a bowl of suck

Not really.

I’m just a fan of the expression.

Furthermore, as a biological male, the expression “suck my dick” feels so played out these days. Egregiously, it couples something delightful with a derogatory tone and, as someone who hasn’t had his dick sucked in a decade, I’d much rather people think it, if not pleasant than at least a kindness, rather than the last thing they would want to do.

God I’m lonely. No, lonely isn’t the right word. Neither is desperate. Horny is relatively close, but that would be solved by masturbation.

Horny for companionship?

Let’s go with that.

I’ll take care of the horny with my hand, but it sure would nice to do so with a person every once in a while. Shame about that anxiety.

Anyways…

Brainstorming new ideas for the next decade is going well. The erotic stories are flexing my brain, particularly regarding variety. I’m not only really digging into the recesses of my mind, but also doing some research into various kinks. I’m excited for the way this will stretch my writing as, while somewhat formulaic initially, I have no doubt that I’ll start to wiggle about as I start to get bored of the same sort of shit starts dribbling from my pen. The real trick will be to keep it both sexy and respectable to the audience—particularly with the kinks I don’t share.

The essays are already bolstering my misplaced confidence in subject alone. Don’t get me wrong, I still am entirely aware that it will be mostly self-serving bullshit—or just a more generalized bullshit—but maintaining this webpage and using it as a place to post them gives me no small amount of joy. I truly love the idea of moving farther and farther away from social media, of creating content solely for this little world below my url rather than for mass content machines.

Does it mean that my work will be seen even less?

It sure does, but everyday I’m growing more okay with that. If nothing else, it will hopefully help to increase my authenticity. If I don’t have an audience, who do I really have to worry about?

Famous last words to be sure.

Dicks for listening!

I push my fingers into my ass…

It’s the only thing, that helps me masturbate

Tryin’ to see how many digits I can take

If I get in a thumb, I’m gonna nut so hard

I think I read that on Instagram. Anyways…

Things have, mercifully, been going alright lately. I’ve gotten into a decent rhythm between work, art, and Emi. I’ve slowly but surely been making progress on the MTC inks at home and the pencils on the next comic, now called “l Am Un Chien, and a Loser” (Chien for short) at work. I’ve also generated about 90 ideas for stories, erotic shorts, and essays so far.

While I’m still enjoying living this year relatively goal-free, given that I turn 40 next year, I am starting to work out some goals for the next decade of life. My main goals center around the aforementioned ideas I’ve been generating. I’d like to produce to completion at least 30 of each and publish them here on my page. I’d also like to periodically compile them into published compilations to sell as well. If I could sum up the overarching idea, it will be to get back to what I wanted to do back in high school that I lost track of oh so many years ago.

Graduating college, I seemed—at least in my mind—to be on track to make my dreams come true, but, if I’m being honest, I was already working to undermine myself. I was straying further and further away from the things that made me happy in favor of things I’d convinced myself would make me happy. Quite frankly, I’m kind of over that. I’m too old, too tired to care that much about things that don’t bring me happiness and, since I’m trying real hard to want to stay alive, I figure I should probably pay more attention to the things that make me glad to be alive.

In any case, dicks for listening!

Do you believe in fat kids?

They’re fuckin’ everywhere

Eatin’ up your food ‘n’ fallin’ down your stairs

(sung to the McDonald’s theme song)

Not a bad day overall, but the residual feelings from yesterday’s crash are still lingering there around the periphery of my mood. My goal of not having goals has been going pretty well thus far. It’s taken a bit of unnecessary pressure off of my shoulders and I still seem to be getting work done in spite of it. Work on MTC is progressing slowly but surely, and I’m making solid progress on the pencils for the as-yet-to-be-named story following it.

I have found my mind wandering to the next decade. I turn 40 at the beginning of next year and I’m trying to debate what, if anything, I hope to accomplish in the next 10 years. More than anything, I want a period of time in my life where I can genuinely look back at it with a sense of accomplishment. My twenties were, in large part, wasted at a job I didn’t like, yearning for a relationship I didn’t even really enjoy being in when I was in it, and burning bridges left and right. I have some stories, but nothing I’m particularly proud of—save for right there at the end when I stopped smoking.

My thirties were a bit better: quit drinking, moved back out on my own, found a career outside of art I actually enjoy, self-published a novel, self-published an art book, and of course, adopted Emi. There’s a lot to be proud of, but I’m greedy. I want to do more, to accomplish more, to put in more of the work towards being who I dreamed I’d be rather than falling down the path of a bitter old man.

What does that look like? Comics. I want to write and draw a lot more comics, self-publish them, and just build a more worthwhile legacy in my profile. My thirties were a great start, but I’m curious what I can accomplish with even more focus and willingness to ignore other potential projects in favor of the ones that bring me the biggest sense of pride.

Can I do this without scheduled goals? I think maybe I can, but I’d at least like a little list of sorts, just so I have something to come back to and regroup every now and again.

Dicks for listening!

Danny Glover was right…

I’m getting too old for this shit…

After a few weeks of interacting on Threads, I’ve not only come to the realization I am so far away from the art community that I can’t even fucking see it, but I’m also starting to show the early signs of bitterness. When I’m typing out messages, I feel these ancestral hints of my grandfather poking through, this delusional voice that suggests I’m not only much more ignorant and uninformed than I believe myself to be, but that I have this respect that I sure as shit have never earned. I’ve long carried the fear of falling into the same trap as him and attempting to keep up with younger generation has shown me just how close to that trap I really am.

Needless to say, I had a nice crash this evening that left me sitting there sobbing, good choking huffs that always seem to accompany any sort of break-through—though not before that deep seated desire to die rears its ugly head. This wasn’t a great one. It wasn’t my worst by far, but it was still shockingly painful. I’m thankful to have had Emi breathing softly on my chest as I was going through it to at least give me something physical to hold onto to help me try to find ground again.

I don’t know if there ever was a time when I was cut out to put myself out there, but I’m afraid that time has long since passed. What’s important, what I need to focus on, is that I absolutely do not have to be somebody. My life doesn’t have to matter. I just need to make some art and then peace out while trying to do as little damage to myself and others as possible.

Allllll my exes…

Live in the dark recesses of my mind and come back to haunt me in dreams.

I’ve been having a number of dreams over the past couple of weeks featuring either ex-partners or old friends with whom I’m engaging in intimate moments with. It isn’t just sexy times though, there’s this feeling of being alive, of wanting someone and being wanted by them. I have them and, in the dream at least, it’s like I’m actually living my life, not simply existing.

It’s not my favorite thing to admit, but I really am so desperately lonely sometimes. (I say that, but how many times have I said that before? How many times have I written these words or had this conversation with myself? How many times have I spiraled?

I don’t like myself, and I’m not really sure I ever have. Don’t get me wrong, I like certain aspects of my life, certain memories, but even those seem tainted if I let myself linger on them for too long. I start to question whether or not I’m worth Emi or if she deserves better. I like that I can draw, but recognize that my business sense is terrible and, as such, am not really going to make a living out of art. That’s not the worst thing ever, of course, I can still create, but it’d be nice if I could spend more time doing that and less time worrying about money. Truthfully, worrying about money is something I don’t have to do, I choose to do it. I could push it away, bury those fears and focus, and maybe I should do a bit more of that with finances.

The loneliness though, that shit is getting to me. I can try to push it aside, but even if I escape it during the day, it comes back to haunt me at night.

The solution seems so simple, but the important thing to remember is that I don’t really care for myself. Not only do I not really care for myself, but I really, really struggle to believe that anyone else would either. This mindset always brings me back to the same conclusion: why bother?

Ugh, this got really cringe.

Dicks for listening!

Matlock opened with a Black Widow…

I didn’t like it. Like not at all. I’m watching this show for some good, old-fashioned, Southern lawyering, not to be creeped out. That’s what Murder She Wrote is for…

In any case, where were we? Well for starters, I start the new job tomorrow. I’m a bit nervous and more than a little curious as to how it’s going to go. On the one hand, it’s a new adventure, with new room to grow and new shit to learn. On the other, it could be an absolute, maybe abject failure. I’m hoping it won’t be, but we’ll see.

The lead up to this job change was certainly something else. The stress has been deeply unpleasant and certainly did a number to my sleep, my appetite, my overall day . It brought into light just how lonely and disconnected I’ve become. I’m not particularly good at talking my decisions through with others and, while it’s not like I don’t feel supported by family, it would be nice sometimes to have a teammate. That’s just a whole bunch of whining ultimately though. When you get down to it, I’m doing alright, just a little lonely.

Elsewhere, things are doing alright. I spent a few days dicking around with digital painting, my mind already filling with plans and ideas for how I could use it to turn a profit and what great advancements I could forge for myself through it. Sticking with my resolution to not set goals this year, I actually managed to overcome the usual desire to hyperfocus and throw away whatever I’d been planning up until that point. I forced myself to actually think about what it was that I wanted and how I wanted to spend my time. Ultimately, I not only kept myself on course, but managed to save a little money to boot. Of course a new idea would require some financial investment on my part, some chunk of change that would, down the line, pay off big time. It’s the same old story I’ve told myself over and over again and I didn’t listen to it this time—praise be.

Speaking of what I want to do, I’m making some solid progress on the comics, with the pencils for both of the stories in the first book well underway. Thankfully I have what I need to finish them already, so it’s just a matter of keeping my head down and getting them done. I’m not setting any dates, no goals, just effort.

Dicks for listening!

Happy New Year…

Mother fuckers.

Hope everyone rang it in well. I spent mine cuddled up with Emi, working on the MTC comic, and watching Matlock. Work asked me to come in to help as we were going to be short, and usually I would agree to come in. I pride myself on my willingness to “help the team,” but in this case, it really seemed to stand in conflict with my New Year’s Resolution. The biggest thing for me, outside of clearing out some debt, is to not have any goals. I want to focus less on planning the future, dreaming about the future, and more time enjoying my present.

To be honest, it was an uncomfortable decision, and not something I’m used to doing or something I necessarily enjoy doing, but it was something I needed to do.

I mean honestly, how much time have I spent trying to live in the future rather than my present?

Too fucking much.

Dick’s for listening!

An Idea…

I’m thinking of something like a short, illustrated, very specific autobiography. The gist of the book is that it will be a chronicling of my learning to masturbate, from my first days of seeing nudity for the first time to finally coming, after months of trying. Illustrations will be either be like some Diary of a Wimpy Kid shit, or some real fancy, Dore-esque illustrations of epic quality. I almost like the latter, treating this most banal and downright strange story.

Could be fun…

I’m so ronery…

So ronery and sadry arone…

Depression this season is really kicking my ass. It kicks my ass a bit a a matter of just having it, but this year it feels so heightened and is definitely adding to my stress. I feel so ready to quit. That I can’t positively identify a reason to stay alive is getting to me more than usual. Emi helps some. I picture her in some terrible homelife and it makes me want to stay around, if only to make sure she has a good life—or at least as good as I can give. That said, I am lonely.

I know the fix, but even thinking about trying to find someone is terrifying. All that emerges is self-loathing and even more terror. Anxiety flies through the roof. I’m left right back where I started only more lonely and depressed.

Back to hating myself I suppose…

At least Christmas is over. That’s a plus. A couple more months and all this will have passed and it’ll be just the regular old manageable depression.

Maybe at least the constant desire to kill myself will disappear. At least for a little while.

Dicks for listening.

I can always tell…

…when I’ve forgotten to take my meds. I hate life just a little bit more. Little things irritate me more. Emi, an absolute blessing in my life, I think of giving her away or abandoning her. I insult myself, beat myself up more, and find myself crying after, and this is important, after hurting my own feelings. It casts an absolute shade over my day.

I hate it. But then I jerk off. I jerk off and then I feel just a little bit better.

Busting nuts for a better mindset.

Great porno company motto.

Thinking about starting a sketchbook again. I still have this dream of completing and publishing one. In my mind, this go round, I’m thinking of trying to sort of figure out a direction for the next 10 years. Interestingly enough, to me at least, is how I’m looking at this now as a stall tactic rather than something that may benefit me. On the other hand, I’ve always wanted to complete and publish a sketchbook so…

I just feel so rudderless. Or is this burnout? Dunno. Not sure I have the intelligence or self-awareness to answer that.

It’s okay though. I don’t need the answer and feeling rudderless is to be expected when the goal is to have no goals. The hope, of course, is that by then end of the year I’ll have a better idea of what’s important to me, what’s truly important, and what isn’t.

Dicks for listening!

Guess what?

Busted nut!

What the fuck is wrong with me? I mean, a number of things, and one of those is that I remember pornos like I remember other movies. Like, a while back, I found these bizarre videos from Japan, where guys would sneak up behind crouching or seated women and just nut in their hair before running off.

Alright, glad I got that off my chest.

Anyways…

I’m never really sure if my epiphanies are worthwhile or just bullshit. I’m not even sure if they’re really even epiphanies. I am thankful for them though, that much I know.

I was in my kitchen yesterday, trying to fight some thoughts per usual, when ye olde Ex popped into my mind. I’m not entirely sure what washing dishes, watching ‘What Happened’ on Youtube, and baby-talking Emi did to turn my mind down that delightful path, but there I was, thinking about that whole shitshow, when a trauma origin hit me.

While my low self-esteem has always been my biggest enemy, one particularly aggravating voice regularly wants me to believe that no one would actively want to date me, they would just settle for me. I realize that that was how I felt the entire time I was with this ex. While I thought I was incredibly lucky to have her, she was always just settling for me.

Now, that’s on me. Were I to have had a higher self-esteem, better sense of self-worth, etc., I wouldn’t have had that feeling, and if I did, I would have been strong enough to push it aside. That said, she didn’t exactly do much to help my anxiety. And that said, no, easing my anxiety is not her job, and no, I didn’t ever try to bring this up and communicate it. All the same, that idea, that I was just someone to be settled started here, and since I deeply believed it, I saw it, and continue to see it.

Fun shit.

Like I said, not sure if this is bullshit or not, but I’m thankful for it all the same.

Dick’s for listening!

You know what I don’t get?

Bukkakes. Like, who are they for? Do groups of guys really just all think like, “I wanna cum with the bros,” or does it help them to get off if they’re around other people getting off? Is it maybe more for the women? Are there women that just loved to get coated? Is it all of the above? None of the above? I really don’t know.

I’m already starting to see some discoveries with this no goal goal for next year. Simply put, my need to do’s, want to do’s, and want to have done’s are horribly mashed together. Mentally and in terms of the to-do lists I’ve created, there’s no real separation between these. This is particularly problematic with the second 2 in the list, things I want to do and want to have done. Everything in these have the same weight and none of them tend to have priority of the other. One thing I’m hoping to see in this next year is some distinction between these.

There are so many things I want to have done for one reason or another but don’t particularly want to do. I spend time fantasizing about having done them and spend my time thinking about having done them and push myself to sometimes even start and make progress on, only to lose interest and move on. That time, while not necessarily wasted, could certainly have been used to do something I wanted to do rather than for something I wanted to tell people I did.

Does that make sense?

Well it does to me.

Point is I want to spend my time doing things I want to do rather than shit for speculative joy. The hope is that it gives me a better idea of what makes me smile and moves me forward so I can spend my 40s doing that rather than wasting time.

We’ll see how it goes.

Dicks for listening!

Hear comes the rain again…

Bouncing off my head like some mammaries…

Goddamn this seasonal depression is a bitch. I wonder if it would be better or worse if I didn’t have regular depression year round? Well, that’s something I’m not ever going to know.

Stress has been growing as of late due in large part to increasing dissatisfaction at my job. Now, before I go any further, it’s worth mentioning that I’m not sure the “ideal” job exists for me. All I really want is to create the things I want to create and get paid for it. As previously illustrated, while this may be an option for some, I have clearly, miserably failed at turning an actual profit with my art.

Oh well. But yeah…

My ideal job seems far more fantasy than reality. As such, I’ve got to take something less than ideal to keep a roof over our head, food in our bellies, and meds in my brain. That’s not to say I don’t like working in Vet med, it just isn’t a dream of mine. Because of this, I’m willing to tolerate a lot if only because getting another Vet med job seems like more of a lateral move rather than a horizontal one and, in my faulty thinking, if I have to move anywhere other than forward, I just don’t really care to. It’s not the best viewpoint by far, but being as lazy as I am, it’s the easiest, so it’s what I do.

Lately though, work’s gotten a lot more unpleasant. As much as I enjoy being overnight, some of my favorite people are leaving. Unfortunately, one of those is the manager who sticks up for us and serves as a buffer from the higher ups. She was, is, the heart of the team as far as I can tell and I just don’t see it persisting in any worthwhile way. There is a lot of toxicity in this practice, with a good deal of mean girl bullshit and entitlement. Like so many places, I suspected that it came from the top. This was all but confirmed when the owner and lead doctor gave a very aggressive, loud dressing down of one of the cleaning staff in a room full of people.

What an absolutely disgusting thing to do, as though she were a child throwing a tantrum rather than a supposedly respected business owner. Thing is, that is absolutely true for one’s own employees. Our cleaning staff though? Outside company. We’re just a stop of theirs.

As far as I’m concerned, there’s no difference between what she did and what some Sunday-after-church cunts do to the waitstaff. It’s the action of entitled trash, it’s the resort of the bully.

It’s easy to get high and mighty with all of this, and maybe I’m doing that. I know I have my faults, and I know my temper isn’t always the best, but I don’t want to end up like the people that hurt me. I don’t want to be a bully.

And I don’t want to make money for one. Not if I can help it.

Dicks for listening!

Don’t believe me…

Even I don’t know who the fuck I am.

Lost in my masks, a tumbling parody of grace. Pointless pathos. Pathetic. A half-formed trembling fetus.

Focus mother fucker.

Play your role. Fill your part.

Fuck you.

Fuck yourself, if you can figure out who you are…

I’m lost. I don’t know where the path is. I don’t even know when I stopped following it. Did it even exist to begin with? I don’t know. I think it did. I hope it did. But maybe it didn’t.

Maybe it was all delusion?

I wanted to write something better and more substantial, but this bullshit is about the extent of what I’ve got in me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try to make a list of what I want.

Do I even know?

I know I want to die again and I know I’m not supposed to want that. I know I’m not supposed to think about that, I know that I’m supposed to want to live. I don’t want to though, mentally at least. I’m a coward, have been my whole life, so obviously I’ll fight tooth and nail to stay alive, even if mentally I consistently lament that I’m not dead.

No spark, no zest. Love that ain’t worth shit.

Why does it seem like the bravest thing I can do is to try and kill myself? Don’t worry though, I won’t. Even that decision requires something I lack: conviction.

What a fucking disappointment.

Wait a minute…maybe that’s who I am. Maybe that’s my identity.

No, it can’t be. Disappointments are somebodies. Somebodies who failed. That’s why they’re disappointments. I didn’t fail though did I? My dreams were delusions, my hopes the same. I was expected to be someone I wasn’t, so even the hopes of others are nothing but delusions to them.

So then what am I?

A nobody.

Well, that’ll have to do I guess. I am a nobody, talking aimlessly to the void. There is very, very little that is real about me. In regards to the suicide: that’ll have to wait until Emi is gone. When she dies I’ll just have to reassess.

She is a great dog at least, so if I don’t make it, I have no doubt she’ll find a loving home—most likely with Mom.

Dicks for listening.