I need to find a way to enjoy myself without killing myself. I was just so bored with being good, surely people who drink every day can understand a release. Today, I was like a sailor lost at sea on a beautiful boat. It would have been nice for you to be here, but frankly, it was an ugly reminiscent of my speed days (and nights). I sit here with foggy regret over a pack of cancerous, motivation-inhibiting, focus dilapidating yummy gummy bears at four o’clock in the morning. Two cups of coffee and half a pizza. I even rooted on my arch enemy. I don’t know why I have so much guilt over things that aren’t worth a sweat. I let go of everything I had pent up because of my horoscope. If I can be so easily swayed by an app I downloaded two days ago, I worry about any “progress” I’ve made. I think I edited five, maybe six chapters which is a beautiful feat, but I have a trembling worry that it won’t matter because I don’t have a reliable editor. I’m contemplating taking things into my own hands, but that is how you end up with a bullet in the head. I will admit, I don’t think I was anymore happy today after I broke my promises to myself. Perhaps more productive, but if I had just TRIED before I acted, I would probably be just as far along, and twice as happy. I’m debating if I should start over with Alice in Wonderland, because I know, for the next three weeks, my work will be compromised. It is an ugly thing to live so dangerously – even now as I glimpse in the mirror I’m afraid I won’t recognize me. And such a beautiful living when you do everything right. Even now, I see that there are clustered words and a shorter manuscript. It is worth the rare moment, but never in the long term. I will just have to start over, “So we beat on, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly into the past.” #neveragain its a learning game

too much of the right thing goes sour. I am overwhelmed by doing so little that it is agonizing. To my surprise, I’m very bad at disguising all of my short-comings and flaws. To anyone, even people who don’t deserve to know me. I hate that I am nowhere where I want to be and I don’t have anybody to cradle me. It is one direction or sink. Sometimes I laugh at how lucky I am, but it always comes back around and I realize I only feel that way because of how much I read. Books make me dream bigger than my reality. They take me away from modernity My greatest fear is being redundant or saying the same thing over and over but there are only so many things you can spy with your little eye until it comes full circle. A simple checklist might save my life. You know what I need? Exactly what is coming for me. Tomorrow and I wouldn’t be the half bit surprised if it stole away all the meandering, subtle, unenjoyable, slow progress I equate to not smoking. I don’t want to reread Alice in Wonderland over a spice that doesn’t serve me. I remember being this bitter the last time I made this much progress and at the end of the day, the simplest way to be happy for yourself, is to just be happy for others. It is not a damn contest and it is a shame that that is the angle that I look down from. I don’t want to be a redheaded academic, and I respect the man who was able to walk on the shore a little longer than the world might have implored. I had all my dreams come true a few nights ago, but then I woke up. I am very sensitive – to the extent of being insecure whenever someone tells me there is something wrong with the way I process words. It is not like classical piano, there is no correct way to write a sentence – well, grammar, but I, am a poor poet that will happily die penniless while the young girls swoon for me from my grave. I’m looking forward to it these days. It is not worth the complications of marriage, or the disaster and hazards of love for the living. I don’t know what, or why I end up being so nice to people and rude to other prospects. It usually has to do with how much they threaten me if I’m just being honest. Honesty, what a joke in this fucking filthy world. It all doesn’t make sense to me. How we can all lie in front of one another and happily stab them in the back once they leave. I’ve seen it with my own ears.

I was particularly hungry today and I’m becoming a much more well-rounded person. It is middle school all over again. I wish you knew me when I was younger. That time in life breeds a beautiful innocence that understands one another much more clearly and deeply than the complications of reservations for love we impose on one another when we grow older. I can’t remember if I was confused during elementary school or if things just came to me naturally. I was far too silly and people would have to calm me down constantly and criticize my nature. Free-spirited. Naked on camera. I was a good liar, I remember that, but I was also very deep, and believed in mythical phenomenons. I was a superhuman mutant and convinced many children of this reality. I think as we grow up we get shallower and accept less of the extraordinary. I didn’t have much to lose apparently, or so thought many parents who knew me. But what I did have, I lost anyway. Not to mention I am waiting for the day when the comfort of my lilypad raindrop garden dries up and I am forced to figure it all out without a safety net. I can hear the bitter words of being out on the street without a choice. I think of these things most often whenever I can see a solution (an escape plan) most clearly, because like the stupidity that still breathes in my everlasting being, I mess things up foolishly right before any sense of an ending. A beautiful broken butterfly dying trying to fly. It will be disgusting, but who knows, maybe I’m older and know better and I’ll never be alone. Maybe I’m wrong. If I were to bet on myself, I might. If I were someone else betting on me, I’d break my heart and leave. Summer is almost over and it appears that I have built the greatest sandcastle known to man. My plan. It is beautiful and romantic and makes me happy, even if it won’t come to fruition the way I plan (which things, thankfully, never do). Did you know Fitzgerald wrote during the period of modernism? I always thought it was romanticism but I have never taken one English course. If you can’t tell I’m reading him. I taught myself how to read. And writing came naturally and friendships once seemed to be more important than they are today.