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.