ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Diatribe Any exciting dreams or stories told to me by people that I don't know from a stick in the street since the last entry. Oh yeah. But let's not dwell on that, shall we? Instead, let's talk about the future. The near future, to be exact. I don't know where I'll be or what I'll be doing in a year from now, but later on today is Katie's birthday celebration and a good time to be had by all. Next payday is ten days away and I'm already dangerously low on money. Any surprised parties, raise your hands. Anyone? Didn't think so. The rest of this week SHOULD be devoted to finding a damn day job but I just can't get motivated. It's as if I'm not thinking about the future lying directly in front of me. The pothole in the street that I will step in and snap my tibia on the edge of. Tomorrow is a new day, and the day after that (figuratively) my apartment will vacate and I'll need to have a place lined up to stay in. I'll need a security deposit, possibly a car depending on the location of this hypothetical shelter, a California ID. Do these things not seem real to me? Exactly. Have I ever had to survive on my own steam? No. I've always had friends with immaculate credit and an extra room there to call on me. I've always had mom's place to crash in the interim. Do I have any of that out here? No. All I have is me. I could use a bit more to rely on, know what I mean? On the wall in front of me here at Lestat's are five photographs of the same woman in different states of dress and makeup. The one in the middle reminds me of Becki. I miss her so much. It just seems unfair that I ran away from her; to me and to her. When you find something that complements you so well, you're supposed to grab and hold it and integrate into all that you are. What did I do? "It's been fun, kiddo. Don't forget to write. And I'm off...." Any idiots in the room? Oh, here's one. R.E.M.'s "Country Feedback", one of the most definitively depressing songs ever put to record, is playing in my headphones and I understand every nuance of Stipe's pain-stricken voice and the crying of the slide guitar. This place is so familiar to me; this funk. Like an old friend that I don't have anything in common with anymore but hang out with out of habit. "I need this." "It's crazy what you could have had." I've been meaning to start a book called "Stories I Wish I'd Never Heard" that will feature all the tales told to me by the myriad of lonely people that I meet in the many places that I haunt. I'm lonely, too. But I'm also asocial, a nasty side effect of prolonged solitude and being reared by an emotionally unavailable stoic that I call "Dad". All in all, I'm pretty hopeful. I know that seems incongruent, but I have too much of my mother in me to let life's little hang-ups hang me up. I feel confident that I'll make it through this coming transition period and that I'll level out. And who knows? This time next year, I could be exactly where I want to be. Let's just pray that it doesn't take me that entire time just to figure out what the hell that is. 4:02 a.m. - 2003-09-11 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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