The only critical acclaim I have is from myself. That is pretty neat.

I grew out of my Fred Savage stage but I did not grow out of you.

Window

Can't help but say [it sucked] or, this is the worst [part]. Five dreams add up to the non-realized you and I can't help but to feel depressed, like I stuck my toe in the door frame to intentionally stub it. I never do that. Who would? I completely did that and I will over and over again until you re-arrange the door frame.

Pete Halupka is a Natural Born Sociologist of Nothing's Somethings

My friend Pete asked me "What is the link between memory and loneliness?" Two abstracts. Really tough, I thought it. But really the answer is easy, if you are experienced in both or pay attention to the life you haven't lived hence my answer--imagination.

When you are lonely you can only think about fantasies with the people you want to be living those out with. Maybe they exist but they are not in your house on your bed or in the house on your bed, or not on the bed by the house. They hang out in the imagination that laps the back of your eyes pushing you forward to see but only realizing that your lip is really heavy, the heaviest part of your body when you are lonely.

So then what? You make a memory. You remember when you were lonely. Do you? What did you have? A fantasy, an imagined fantasy.

I often think the relationships I never had but that were in my head were the best ones to date.

Laying My Salsa on the Table

This is a messy place but I do not have pudding on my hands and quite frankly that would annoy me because I really don't like being messy. Fuck it, I need to face it, I am a mess. There is no doubt in my mind that I should have been diagnosed with OCD long ago and I know it's really silly to label ourselves this way in the age of I-know-nothing-about-psychology-or-diagnoses-but-I-plan-to-make-them-anyway.

Lately I have been generally excited about life but only social things and I feel like my education is meaning less and less more and more frequently. I hate writing at this point, I'm too steeped in it and by this time next year I will axe-murder poetry. My thesis is only a year away, (60 page manuscript of polished poems). I can't seem to write one poem I am proud of and that is probably the real reason I haven't submitted anything this year. I haven't submitted anything for almost two years. I seldom share work with my parents which I used to, we used to talk about it, I used to feel validated when we talked about it even though they are my parents and supposed to love what they have spent thousands of DOLLARS on.

This is going to continue in the vein of being gripe-y so if you are annoyed already, read no further. I get really excited when things seem to be working out but too excited and that is why I was hinting at obsession earlier, it's so unhealthy, I don't know how I keep it together sometimes and I really fear schizophrenia is on its way (there I go self-diagnosing my weepy bits again). Shit day. Probably because of a shitty burrito that I initially had some hope for, like I always do because when I get hungry I will eat anything and I forget that somethings just don't satisfy me, like burritos, and that I should have waited the 10 minutes for the fish tacos that probably were going to suck nut as well because I don't even really like Mexican food.

There is a lot of pent-up shit going on right nowwwwwww. Therapists are neat even if they don't help and use your money for the nice clothes.

Poetry is a fucking drag. Wednesdays are a drag. I don't want to talk about it. I really, really, really, like the five year old drooling at the seams, want to go home. The other day I was thinking how temper tantrums never really go away, they just shut up. I have a lot of temper tantrums in my head and maybe I should just let them out and break a dish here and there. I could be pleasant someday, I just forgot how to relax and woke up to a billboard on my dick that says "you will be working everyday for the rest of your life. might as well get herpes." Not sure where that came from. So many ugly places. UGLY UGLY UGLY I want to be in the woods, in a blanket of snow with a hand underneath me that belongs to no one but possibility.

Wool Socks Aren't Keeping My Shit Warm

Academic papers seem to never serve their purpose to heighten secondary education. They only allow you to write sentences like the previous one and feel justified about being an asshole.

Sleeping in bed next to a girl is stressful. I find I lose sleep when this happens.

I used the term "indie" probably about 50 times in that academic paper I was talking about and I'm not happy about it. The paper is done. I have not revised it. I may not revise it.

When I went into the bathroom last night I did not feel safe for once.

I woke up to the sound of fucking. I was not fucking. I think I killed my libido long before I decided not to take medication that would kill my libido.

The only reason I am writing this way today is because I just finished that paper, I'm tired as fuck, I'm not hung over anymore but had enough liquor to make me feel depressed. Woe is woe is woe but woe is not ME.

Maybe I will have some time this week to write the things I have been wanting to write which I am still unaware of. I lost my third notebook this month last night so I will have to start from scratch and fucking deal with it. Letting go is nice. I wish there were a few more people I could let go of.

I don't think I will be going to Israel in the spring. Denver instead.