Today was an unpleasant reminder that there is a difference between unbridled talent and dedicated revision of hard work. I hate to admit, for as fast as I am running, I am good at coasting. The starving artist deserves no sympathy. We do it to ourselves. Believe in a dream – what an undeveloped plan that a good parent should intervene. I’ve seen so many angels ready to burn in hell, and today, it is rather unfashionable to ask for help. It is unhealthy, that is for sure, and we can’t see what our organs look like, even if they are for dinner. I used to look up people’s height to see if I was taller than them. It was a compulsive habit that diminished a person to a relatively unimportant trait. Now, I look up people’s age, because I hate to say, I’m older than when I was that happy little trailbaby. “I have time” I convince myself in the same way I’d explain that I’d grow when someone was over six foot. Like a little lie that makes me ok for not being good enough – that someday I will be recognized for all the beautiful words I say on a page, but not today. Not by anybody who matters – the ones I pay no attention to because I know they will always be there to support me indefinitely. My friends, family. Why does approval cause ambivalence and diminish dismay? It might be best to die young, marry rich, I’m so excited I can’t wait! I hate anybody who says they can read a book better than me. It is all poetry. It is like praying. God does not hear you! It might be better understood, but feelings have no degrees. No wish is answered because it is greater. We are all the same. Plain old wheat bread, salami, and cheddar. I got in a fight today because it just isn’t worth the effort to explain myself. Nobody should feel guilty for reasons painted by the insane – people think they are so much better at explaining the mundane. My cat just gave me a workout.

I might as well try to write while balancing a guitar on my lap. The wonderful act of balancing anything else in my life seems to have fluttered away, and me, as usual, I decay. No music – that would make me happy. I make playlists out of spite that I might meet somebody who enjoys them in the slightest. Not me. I like the same music that I listened to when it was 2009, 2010…Should’ve made a record bout how I felt then. I haven’t written a song in almost a year. Well, the ending riff doesn’t count. Its all jibberish. Everything I make is criticized by my roommate Oscar- the grouch. My alter-ego. A crabby green man who lives in a trash can. I doubt I’d be very good at catching a catchy tune anyway. It’s all the same chords I knew when I learned to play naked on shrooms. Pizza Underground greatest hits. Like a little bird that has flown out of reach, I don’t have much to offer. I am a sick bastard. In love with hating myself, the news, and any other person who exceeds my limitations. If we were to line everybody up in a row, in order of success, I really don’t know where I’d be placed. That seems to be my greatest problem – I can’t pinpoint where I am most meaningful..probably because I’m such a chronic isolator. I love very few people, and the more I walk these empty streets, the more I realize how little people love me. What is most meaningful to me if it isn’t in the form of longhand bad handwriting? My grandparents, and my cat who tried to kiss me last night (with tongue!) Even that, I’m feigning sleepiness since I broke my 49-day streak. Journaling consistently. Not bad, but I seem to have a grit plateau that lasts roughly that long, 50 maximum. Can I get better? That all depends on two significant choices. 1. If I am smart enough to abstain from attention shortening substances (primarily nicotine) 2. If I put aside all the excuses of an average day to wake up, with a positive attitude, and go to sleep feeling the same way. I don’t know which comes first, the chicken or the egg. If I do good, I will do well, well, if only.

I’m so frustrated I’m menstruating. It is like I have a cramp at mile two of a marathon. I can’t imagine anything more important in your life than reading about me complain how my back hurts, my hair is receding, I’ve done nothing I’m supposed to, and I’m downright unhappy at 23. Luckily for you, we will take the scenic route and digress in the more happy aspects of my enjoyable existence such as bunnies hopping through the forest. There is nothing in the world more boring than not having a problem to solve. My conundrum is that I create more problems than I can allocate (I think it is a symptom of reading too much). It was a beautiful night in the kitchen when all of my worries were reduced to a sentence. A simple sentence surely shouldn’t be too hard to swallow, and it isn’t. It is when I start “writing the narrative” of my life that everything gets so complicated that I might as well run butt naked to the nearest gas station, put my thumb up and say goodbye to responsibility. My problem is that my solutions always catch up to me. Call me a control freak, call me a highly productive time-waster, call me stupid and slow, I can firmly agree with you. I am (embarrassingly) living my best life. My progress would lose a race to a snail, and believe me when I say, I’m racing. My thoughts race, my legs race, I race myself to the end of the page, but my life is so bare by the end of the day, that all I have to look forward to is a journal nobody will read, and the peace that I might have accomplished something that I wouldn’t’ve if my 7 highly effective habits still consisted of weed, drinking, and oversleeping…I still oversleep. This is NOT helping. I am rambling! A madman! Surely awaiting a demise that nobody will see…or worse, read about. Even though I am not a pound lighter, I have integrated a routine of running to calmly accept and work on my unattractiveness. All I’m going to say is it is going to be a LONG weekend – roughly two weeks. Maybe I’m thinking clearly. I am so comfortable being crazy I don’t know if I’d ever like myself enough to get to know me soberly. A soliloquy in the moonlight, but tonight it is cloudy…perfect for poetry.