chicken little

I spend most of my time in my room. The recent construction out on the street is shaking the framework of my solitude. I think of inevitable earthquakes and know if I am in this room it will fall on top of me. I’ve never had anything fall on top of me except my heart that one time. I learned then that if you forfeit yourself for love, you’re doing it wrong. I did it wrong, yet I can’t be mad at myself now that I’m here. It’s no more my fault than the color of my own eyes. Earthquakes and Love are nobody’s fault. They are also the same.

money talks

I sold my guitar for money. I never thought I’d do such a thing. I also never thought I’d be this broke. I’ve been trying to sell a lot of things and I feel like a bit of a peddler, but it’s also a self-affirmation that for one, I have good taste because people want to buy the things I own, and two, I can make ends meet when I’m down and out, the latter being the important one, I guess.

It’s a sad time to be broke because I was just talking today about how I have absolutely no shame indulging in the holiday spirit. I will wander around a mall in December just to get high off of it, but I don’t have the means to buy anyone a gift this year, so, sorry to everyone I love, cause all you’re getting is love.

Sometimes it’s really hard not to get sleepy even if it’s not time for sleeping.

the problem

I have done everything I can in this life to trust just short of believing that god and the world are on my side.

on being bad

When I was in second grade, this bully of a girl that by some matter of either convenience or fear I decided to befriend, told me I couldn’t be in her club unless I said “fuck”. I really didn’t want to say it. I hesitated while nervously cataloging in my formative brain all the reasons I knew it was wrong, believing that all those reasons would somehow find out that I said it or that the guilt from saying it would consume me into the belief that I was permanently bad, but I eventually said it because I really wanted to be in the club. I sometimes still feel that everything is a club asking me to be profane when all I want to do is preserve the purity of whatever my soul is. I have gotten much better at not compromising myself to be a part of things, but sometimes it’s lonely.

edit (sort of)

For the record, I’m not depressed. I’m not even actually that sad about anything. I know that I often write with an air of weariness in regards to my mortality, but I’m just being dramatic.

Things that depress me

1.The fact that I dyed a strand of my hair red because I’m that bored

2. B+’s

3. That one of the most popular questions lightheartedly asked to me by old friends is if I’ve killed myself yet

4. That one of the “freshly pressed” articles on the main page of this
site is about being vegan for one WHOLE week. Since when is that a feat?

5. That the only music I’ve made recently is a cover of Rihanna and Drake’s “What my name?”

6. broke.as.fuck.

7. Have been regularly searching the phrase “books that will change your life” and still reading the canon

8. The antebellum south

9. Playing so much scrabble that I don’t even care when I lose anymore

10. I used up all my “sad tank reserve”

writingthingsreallyfastbeforeyourunoutthedoor

ramblin’ (wo)man

This morning I was trying to think of a list of things that don’t matter to me, but I really could only think of things that do matter to me or things that I didn’t want to matter to me, but would be lying about if I said that they didn’t matter. I realized that my wanting to make that list at all was probably a surfacing of some psychological desire to shed the stresses that have been plaguing me for the past year. I still can’t make the list of things that don’t matter to me but I can think of one for certain that does matter and that is that it’s summertime and a worthy time to try and get a handle on feeling good.

honesty

Lately I have been feeling a weakness in my belly and a sickness in my heart. I wish so desperately for repose, but nothing will allow it. I am constantly asking people, “How do I stop?” and I can hear the desperation and the slight quiver in my voice that I recognize as my own, but have never heard before recent. “Just stop.” I hear, nearly demanded, back from those who love me too much to see me sink into such emotional pestilence. If only such an inculcation could penetrate the fact that I so stupidly and so stubbornly believe in love.