A warm night. A busy week and I need to make some money. I got way fucked-up on Friday and was useless all of Saturday. I want so much to connect with Melissa, but it’s like there is some barrier between us that we’re both too shy to cross. We come close when we’re drunk but that’s it.
I don’t know why I look so forward to getting drunk. I feel like shit the next day and I always regret at least one thing. Jennifer is obviously blowing me off. She was supposed to call me today but didn’t – the second time she’s done that. Whatever. I don’t care even though she supposedly has feelings for me. I just miss the sex, but nothing else.
Earlier today I sat in my bedroom closet and played guitar while listening to a podcast about depression. I sent Jessica a text last night because I know she can get me some LSD, but she hasn’t replied yet. I want to try micro-dosing with her. Our friendship is comfortable enough that we can make out naked and then pee in front of each other.
I have to get some sleep tonight. One year ago sucked. Heartbreak and longing. Just longing for someone new now.
Lent begins this coming Wednesday, and I’m giving up sex and alcohol for 40-days. Yep, no fucking or boozing for 40-days. I thought about giving up masturbating too, but c’mon, who we kidding, right? I’m likely going to toss one off as soon as I finish writing this, courtesy of Aristea Brady. Spank you, Aristea, spank you very much.
Aristea’s reaction to my 40-day sex embargo:
I’m lost. That’s how I feel. I’m at that point where I have to do something, but I don’t know what that is. No career or relationship. It blows my mind that my peers have wives and houses and I’m so far from that. I don’t know.
So, do I go to Los Angeles and be all alone there too? Something’s gotta happen. Where is my plan? I know what I want to do and I can’t do it here. Success is waiting for me…somewhere. But sometimes, like tonight, it hits me how alone I live. I am invisible. Who else lives like this? Am I gonna be alone forever? Where is my someone? Drinking, fucking and sleeping my way through life at this point.
On the upside, I got my first check for being a writer – $10.00 for my first record review. Not much, but it’s how Cheney got started…she’s looking uber-hot these days. Fuck. She texted me last night about an after-bar, but I passed. Fuck. I stole this pic from her blog, so she won’t care…
But tonight, it really hurts realizing how alone I am. No one to talk to or joke around with. Alone. Alone. I’m allowed some self-pity. Pity. Pity.
My $300 Banana Republic messenger bag is gathering dust on the kitchen chair…idle from the days when it went to work with me. Relax my little leather friend with the canvas strap. We’ll be walking out the door again soon enough…I’m still not done paying for you.
I trolled Craigslist today to try and get some freelance work. Still waiting for a lead to get back to me, so I can see if I can delay financial panic or not.
How fucked up is my life? I have two Tag Heuer watches, but I don’t own a home or a decent car. Shouldn’t those things come first, before the outward symbols of success, like designer watches? What good have those watches done me while I sit alone in my apartment with no reasonable means of getting ahead and supporting the someone that I’m waiting to meet?
So my days cycle from seeing others leave for work, and seeing them come home. All deservedly tired from whatever money earning labor they did all day. I sit here and drink Mountain Dew all day, which will require a trip to the dentist that, in now way, I can afford. The only thing that makes me tired is my late night trips to the gym, or drinking all evening.
Got pretty drunk last night. Not too bad, though…got to see Michelle. I met this blonde girl named Amy, she’s a lawyer. Seems o.k., I guess. I called her earlier and left a message. I don’t care if she doesn’t call back…doesn’t matter to me. Nice to get drunk, though, and not wonder if I fucked something up.
Cold January day. I hate these days and nights alone. I had somebody last winter at least. Want somebody now. Still feel hungover now. Cheney cabbed over here around 4am, coming down from an MDMA trip, I think. I’m looking at her now…dead asleep on my IKEA via Craigslist couch…covered up by two fleece blankets…naked with one bare leg exposed. Friends, though.
I want this winter to end. I want to meet someone. I want so much and I try so fuckin’ hard sometimes. It’s fuckin’ frustrating. Positive sucks! I wish I could start life over sometimes. Go back to being just a kid who loved KISS. Proud of nothing now. Fuck, fuck’s sake. Writing doesn’t really make you feel better – just hopeless.
When the fuck am I ever happy – let alone satisfied? Can’t afford shit. The last time I was happy was when I quit my job. It’s scary that drinking makes me momentarily happy. Knowing I’m going to get FUBAR makes me happy. Then the loneliness of a hangover brings me back to depressed reality. I don’t want to be perfect, just happy for a few days.
Maybe if I went on a 3-day bender I would be happy. Happiness and goodness eludes me. Despair and poverty always finds me, though. Maybe drugs could help.
Woke up today. Drank some coffee. Bought a book about punk rock music. Went to the gym and had a good workout. A little happiness for awhile.
I want a hangover tomorrow, so I’m sitting here watching a Foo Fighters DVD and drinking beers. Waiting to get fucked up. I feel actually happy now. It takes alcohol and music to make me happy. It’s all that matters to me sometimes.