ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"She said 'I'll keep all the signals that you send home to me / and I'll meet you back here on the ground.' / It's lift-off again\" - Hum My tummy hurts. I don't know what it is, but it's persisted for about a week, now. Last night, I couldn't sleep. I tossed and turned and my stomach was killing me and I would slip in and out of consciousness; shifting through planes of reality. It was horrible. I felt like hammered shit. Quitting smoking is going really well, and I think the working out helps. Also, I think that may have something to do with my stomach; but it doesn't feel like muscle pain. It just hurts. The weeks are getting longer, stretching and changing into monsters of heretofor untold proportions that are as overbearing as they are intimidating. And as each one seamlessly closes out and bleeds into the next, it seems almost nonexistent in retrospect. I fucking hate this. I am miserable. My roommate (the oafish, straight one) is watching a movie (at unreasonable volumes) in his room with a girl who has a piercing, bubbly laugh. I want to run in there and break both of them. I am exhausted and hungry and broke and angry all the time. It's because I'm lonely and confused and hurt by my own actions as of late. I feel downtrodden, but I know it's my fault, so I can't vent towards anyone. So I just feel this pulsating sadness that reverberates through my body at all times and it's stemming from unseen outside forces so it's completely intangible but its reality is unmistakable. But, if you've read this sort of thing before when it comes from me, you know that I don't do sadness very well. Nope; not too well at all. My sadness dies in my chest due to lack of heart and changes, adaptively, to Careening, pulsing, eclipsing fucking ANGER that I can't control; that darkens my vision all of the time. Everything sets me off. When customers call the bookstore looking for shit that doesn't exist; shit they made up. It's like they're sitting at home, bored, and think "Mad Libs are fun, but there's no real big pay-off at the end. Hey, Fred, give me a name and a noun." Fred: "Peters, uh, and, uh.... Bobbysocks. Yeah." "Thanks, Fred. Now, we'll call Borders Books and Music and ask the associate that answers if they have a book in stock by a Peters about Bobbysocks. Since they can't be expected to do an instant search and dismissively tell us 'no', they'll waste quite a bit of their time trying to find this book that doesn't exist and we'll get a good laugh out of it. And I tell you what, Fred; if, by some coincidence, there is a book by Peters about Bobbysocks, I'll buy you lunch, since you came up with it. Deal?" Fred: "Alright, man! I love fucking with the booksellers! Oh, man, I've got a raging hard-on right now! Dang! Ba-ding-dang-do!" Okay, so maybe it's not like that, but I think my point is made that I've had a fairly normal day which my certain breed of neurosis has transformed into the worst possible fate that any human can undergo. And you wonder why I'm uncomfortable in my own skin... 10:33 p.m. - 2004-04-12 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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