|
| I do my best thinking when I'm trying to think about nothing. Staring at the popcorn ceiling of my bedroom the word NOTHING dances before my eyeballs, swirling around in a technicolored samba of irrelevance. My eyes like to play tricks on me. They seem to like the color green best, a transparent florescent version that does not ever occur in nature, but only in that small fluid world before eyeballs. The prickling popcorn of my popping ceiling prances around my thoughts of NOTHING. And as another Thursday races by at the speed of light, I've found another inadequacy to add to the list of my life's failings. I am less interesting than the popping popcorn of my popcorn ceiling and there is absolute NOTHING I can do about it. In fact, NOTHING is more interesting than my popcorn ceiling. The sambaing word drips of relevance, clad in techinicolored green as it races through the universe at the speed of light.
Nope. I'm still not dead. Though, still irrelevant.
This xanga has withered and died from neglect. And I should be ashamed. | | |
| I return once more from the abyss.
Writing has become a lost cause, my words are tangled up in decisions I refuse to make.
Decisions like, what will I do when I graduate? What will I do with the rest of my life.
I don't want to make that choice. And I hate having to confront it.
I just want to live without all those irritating goals in mind.
Life is too short to map out every decision when I'm 22.
I only know that I refuse to spend the rest of my life working in a cubical.
That thus far is the only goal I've set.
I could go to grad school.
Fall back into the familiar pattern.
Lose my mind in books.
Only, I'm sick of school. The everyday, the homework, the reading what I don't want to read.
I haven't written a piece of fiction in over a year.
I never have the time to my mind wander.
The smart thing is to go to school while the economy is in the shitter. Break in the nine-to-five after the economy fixes itself. But I don't want the nine-to-five.
I want to travel.
Being American is like having a blind spot that engulfs the rest of the world.
I want another perspective.
I want to see more than my everyday.
I want to live and breathe something else.
Only, I have loans to pay off and a cat that I don't want to leave with my mother.
I also have no place to leave my possessions while I globe trot.
Possessions matter little in the long run, but I'm a very poor college student.
I know I can teach English anywhere I go to make money. But that is only money to live on, not pay loans.
Why can't I just hit the lottery, enough to pay off $11,000 in loans and buy a plan ticket. I've never played before, perhaps I should just buy a ticket or scratch thingy.
I'll never be able to write a damn thing if I don't live a little and experience something to write about.
I don't want to spend the rest of my life working from pay check to pay check.
But I also don't want to spend the rest of my life working and pray that I don't lose everything I accumulated.
Life cannot be about stuff and money.
I refuse to let my life be about it.
Though, be American makes this difficult.
Buying and spending is ingrained in to us from the crib.
Fuck that.
But what the fuck am I suppose to do?
¿Pero qué coño?
| | |
| Notes To Self
Go to work
Walk don't run
Don't eat so much
Study for class
Scream when necessary
Make dinner
Smile even when you're not happy
Write constantly
Do laundry
Stop being stupid
Buy nice things
Don't sleep on the floor
Be brave
Remember everything
Pray for rain
Work out
Wear pants
Observe all
Don't look in the mirror
Wash hair
Color outside the lines
Laugh more
Cry more
Be me | | |
| I don't want to end up bored, lonely or mediocre. In other words, I don't want to end up like my mother.
I hate being disappointed.
So I've learned to stop being excited about anything. And therefore, I find it difficult to gather the desire for making long term goals. I've spent most of my life coasting along with the flow of things. Thus far all I've achieved is astounding boredom. I'm growing lonely and falling ever so slowly in to the depths of mediocracy. Help me! | | |
| At work waiting for the bell to sound. Not literally, but I'd really like to get the hell out of here. I've got a book to read and reruns to watch. And grocery shopping to do. I crave granola, I don't know why. I'm loving having a cat. Its nice to have something cute and fuzzy meowing in my door way every morning. She's my new alarm clock. 'Feed me,' she says. Like clock work, between 6:50 and 7:30 am. | | |
|
