He said, “oh, I forgot Lonesome Dove was on!”
He has seen Lonesome Dove at least ten times. I know he has. He also owns it on Bluray. I know. I’ve seen it. He told me when he bought it.
“Yeah because it’s not like you haven’t seen it eighteen times or own it on bluray or anything.” I replied, my voice heavy with sarcasm.
“I do though! I do own it on bluray!” And then he laughed loudly as if it was HILarious that I didn’t know, that the irony of what I said was just too much for him to handle.
Angelo told him that it was sarcasm, but he couldn’t hear anything over the volume of his own laughter. I tried to speak up once too, but he was too far gone already, so I gave up, I just let him have his moment.
Just thinking about winter in San Diego sends my head into a tizzy and makes my stomach flutter and me feel like I’m going to throw up. I miss it so much.
For a while, a good long while, I loathed myself and berated myself for wanting to go back to CA even if it is actually home for me. but why not, you know? everyone wants to run away to California. All young people anyway. [I’m exaggerating.] For the adventure, for the freedom, for… California. I shouldn’t care if so many other people want the same thing I do, because California represents something different for me than it does for them. It represents something different for everyone.
…I got off on this mental tangent thinking about how much I hate english classes and writing essays where I make stuff up about symbolism in a work of fiction and that I can’t even just make stuff up, I have to find someone more credible who made up something similar to the thing I made up and now I am just SO ANGRY.
I don’t think there’s any piece of assigned work worse than writing a goddamn english paper.
I’d rather write an actual research paper because it’s about actual evidence that was actually found by actual people through actual experiments or at least actual observations rather than looking for works by other people who made up a bunch of stuff about this story that was completely made up it’s just so frustratingly pointless
I blog so much better when there’s not a basically definite chance someone, anyone will read it.
I’m self-conscious, I suppose. I also feel like I’m burdening dashboards if I post anything more than three lines and if I use proper diction and if I’m unfunny. Which I often am
Having an audience has chased me into my shell and I don’t want to come out and you can’t make me so I act like I do in an in-person hangout: I observe everyone else and barely say anything and think, for some reason, that these people are my friends, like I actually do know them, when I’ve probably said only three sentences to them ever.
This is tumblr. Er, that is tumblr, rather. I’m okay with that.
Gary reminded me this evening that I have a job waiting for me if I want it but I don’t want it and when I left that job i was so happy to be leaving it behind with no intention of returning and I think I’d rather die than go back.
Obviously I would rather sit around doing nothing, earning nothing, than go back but goddammit, it has nothing to do with working there because it wasn’t even that bad, it wasn’t intolerably bad, it’s just I hate everything and especially people so of course it was bad for me. But it’s more of what it represents: going backwards. I don’t want to go backwards. Maybe I’m just afraid that I’ll go backward and never actually get out of that and just stay there.
And I know I have to backtrack a little to move forward, but I guess I’m just scared that if I go back I won’t get out of it. I guess I’m just afraid that if i go back to the comfortable small town so picturesque you’d think it was out of a movie, that I wouldn’t be getting out a second time.
You know how that adage goes, “get out of house before you find something worth staying it for” or something like that. I’ve gotten out and I need to stay out but I also need to do something because trying to find work just isn’t working out.
All the great advice I get or I read tells me to go, to do, to stop telling myself that I can’t do something and to just go for it but I’ve been down for so long that I can’t even think of something I’ve always wanted to do but felt held back for some reason. I can’t think of any dreams I’ve been putting off until Tomorrow, y’know. I have no ambition at all. I have no motivation, I have no goals.
I want… something, I just don’t know what. Maybe what I want is suppressed under so many years of self-doubt that I can’t even see it anymore and it’s been so long since I’ve allowed myself to want it that I don’t even remember what it is now. And whenever something comes up I don’t know if it’s that deep desire I’ve been supressing or if it’s just another intense, albeit, quickly-fleeting obsession.
I overanalyze what I want and who I am so much that I don’t know what is actually my raw desires, my raw instincts, my initial and honest impressions of anything at all.