So anxious. I'm afraid to pick up the phone, so I feel I must publish my feelings here. I hope that doesn't bother anyone.
I'm kind of interested in Ayn Rand's "The Ethics of Emergencies", it's quite self-empowering. It's a short part of a book that describes why ethical egoism is bad compared to altruism. I found it interesting because it goes against the grain. She articulates well that people feel compelled to act in an altruistic manner, but are unaware of the moral framework behind this behavior.
Isn't caffeine known to make anxious people more anxious? Oh well. It does other things that are important.
I'm afraid to deal with customer service phone calls, and have and will keep procrastinating before I'm ready to deal with it. I don't think I'll ever be ready. This is sad. I'm gonna call my phone company later today.
joke life
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
morning
woke up on time, didn't snooze
went to see grandma
called aunt, had wonderful conversation
trying to reunite self with family for support
must go to high school tomorrow
must call SCM tomorrow about grades
i have to drop the fails
i can't have those on my university transcripts
i can't i fucking can't
went to see grandma
called aunt, had wonderful conversation
trying to reunite self with family for support
must go to high school tomorrow
must call SCM tomorrow about grades
i have to drop the fails
i can't have those on my university transcripts
i can't i fucking can't
"Why not people?"
An unusual introspective wave feel over Raf and he held out his hand in front of him. He watched his fingers unfold and collapse, seeing it like a flower aging in time-lapse and back again. He saw the junction separating finger and hand - the leafy florets around a great furrowed node - and took into account where the edges of palm ended, and where finger and finger would sprout.
Fingers tensed and relaxed. At the beginning of each movement, aware of each individual finger, they felt as if he could control them independently, but noticed that their movements were ultimately connected. The palm, the heart of the bud stood out on its own somewhat, but the fingers accentuated its presence like a great sunflower's goldenrod mane. Thoughts of picking them off individually - like a young girl's lovebird mind playing with a daisy - arrived but realization of the calloused, wrinkled digits at the ends of his branches dared not be plucked. The junctions between florets and head came clear, as if they could be removed if pulled in exactly the right trajectory.
Fingers tensed and relaxed. At the beginning of each movement, aware of each individual finger, they felt as if he could control them independently, but noticed that their movements were ultimately connected. The palm, the heart of the bud stood out on its own somewhat, but the fingers accentuated its presence like a great sunflower's goldenrod mane. Thoughts of picking them off individually - like a young girl's lovebird mind playing with a daisy - arrived but realization of the calloused, wrinkled digits at the ends of his branches dared not be plucked. The junctions between florets and head came clear, as if they could be removed if pulled in exactly the right trajectory.
Friday, March 20, 2009
once again screwed up
preferred to spend my time in bed rather than getting up on time
I don't know how to control it
I'm going to try harder next time
I feel disgusting
didn't shower
I don't know how to control it
I'm going to try harder next time
I feel disgusting
didn't shower
Thursday, March 12, 2009
my friends
I don't think i understand my own feelings. I have a close friend that is clingy. He thinks of me as his best friend and my other close friends as his friends, and everyone else as an acquaintance. I've been lonely for a long time though, but he has been getting on my nerves and an outside friend of mine mentioned that this guy could have been trying to "buy friends". I'm just going to either make myself gradually, a little more unavailable (even though it's hard to lie about such a matter or make it seem honest) or just tell him honestly that I feel like I'm married to the guy.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Problem
I think I have a problem. I will do anything to stay in bed. I called in and said I'd be coming in a little later to do errands. I laid in longer. It felt so good and I couldn't help myself. Every 10 minutes I'd check the time and stay cozy for a little longer. It's been a real problem for me. And, the first thing that people would think is, oh, just go to bed earlier. I get 8 hours of sleep either way! But I noticed that an hour later...I was feeling like I didn't want to lie there anymore. And I only stayed because I knew I'd get up at 9:40. Between 9:20 and 9:40 I felt restless. Maybe, for my age I just have to go to bed a little earlier after all?
It's just that...there's never enough hours in the day. Maybe I'm just not making the most out of them. I don't want to end up 30 and alone. Or 40 and broke. Or 50 and suicidal. I'll try going to bed earlier. Maybe I just need 9 hours of sleep.
Let me tell you about the stories that hang over my head
There were two men who never met or ever will meet, but they grew up during the great depression on their families' meager farmlands. One left at 18 with nothing but his clothes and his last couple of dollars and set out to never be poor again. The other went to the Colorado School of Mines and had the same mindset, just not as public about it. After some time, with much labor and effort, they sat upon their wealth, lived in nice homes, and shared with the families they brought forth. Now they are sick and dying.
They both had a son, each of them, and other children too but all that matters is the fact that both men had a son. One of these sons would become my father. The other, my good friend's adoptive father. These two sons, of the now elderly men lived and currently live more modest lives, more stressed and difficult lives, with less effort on their careers a possible factor, as well as many others.
Moral of the story: I'm willing to work, but need direction. I don't know if the great depression can mirror the economic crisis we're facing now, but it's a hell of a motivation to go to college. I just need a better plan...
I want to be like my grandfather, just without as much of an effort on starting a family. i come first.
It's just that...there's never enough hours in the day. Maybe I'm just not making the most out of them. I don't want to end up 30 and alone. Or 40 and broke. Or 50 and suicidal. I'll try going to bed earlier. Maybe I just need 9 hours of sleep.
Let me tell you about the stories that hang over my head
There were two men who never met or ever will meet, but they grew up during the great depression on their families' meager farmlands. One left at 18 with nothing but his clothes and his last couple of dollars and set out to never be poor again. The other went to the Colorado School of Mines and had the same mindset, just not as public about it. After some time, with much labor and effort, they sat upon their wealth, lived in nice homes, and shared with the families they brought forth. Now they are sick and dying.
They both had a son, each of them, and other children too but all that matters is the fact that both men had a son. One of these sons would become my father. The other, my good friend's adoptive father. These two sons, of the now elderly men lived and currently live more modest lives, more stressed and difficult lives, with less effort on their careers a possible factor, as well as many others.
Moral of the story: I'm willing to work, but need direction. I don't know if the great depression can mirror the economic crisis we're facing now, but it's a hell of a motivation to go to college. I just need a better plan...
I want to be like my grandfather, just without as much of an effort on starting a family. i come first.
Friday, March 6, 2009
the morning and the evening
This morning sucked. I could not drag myself out of bed on time. I missed the short period of time between when I could take the train to which i would have to drive. It took waay too long to get to the freeway due to construction jams and I wanted to tell myself something - well, I did, but I want my brain to remember not to let this happen to me again. Even though it's happened to me in the past. In the mornings, as I'm fading from sleep to wake my personality changes and I become much more impulsive...and my impulses are to stay in bed and to blow off society and the world for selfish gains. It's almost comparable to Jekyll and Hyde. It's something I'm working on, and the worst part is that it doesn't matter how much sleep I get at night, 6 hours, 8 hours, I still feel the same shitty way. It's motivating me to exercise or something maybe that will help. I was half an hour late to work but no one said anything.
then I worked for about 7 hours.
The drive home was so much worse though. It took a good hour. All there was to listen to on the radio was the same hip-hop pop songs, some of which I like, but it gets old quick when the playlist contains 7 songs and 3 different artists. I'm looking at you, Lil' Wayne. Why the hell does he get to be featured in seemingly every single pop song that's not Britney Spears' "Circus"? that might not even be the name of the song. i don't remember writing the previous sentence.
Tonight i cleared my schedule and blew off my friends so that I could take drugs. 15mg hydrocodone, .75mg alprazolam (i gotta be careful with the shit) and i'm drinking some coffee to stay awake. it's too strong but i'm dealing. im planning to smoke a bowl later :D.
You ever get that feeling where you just can't get the right words to conjure in your head, and it makes you uncomfortable when you have to settle for the incorrect words? And no, this happened at work today while I was sober. It pissed me off. Maybe because I was just so fed up with this long annoying project I was working on. That's as much as I'm gonna say about the job because I wish to remain anonymous.
I'm someone conflicted though...i want my writings, no matter how irrelevant they are to other people or how shitty and unorganized they are, to be available on google or something, but I can't make them appear. Perhaps the domain hasn't been around long enough? I know you can register for dmoz.org or something but I couldn't quite figure out how to do it.
I'm taking the drugs to feel something different tonight. there's been too much same.
then I worked for about 7 hours.
The drive home was so much worse though. It took a good hour. All there was to listen to on the radio was the same hip-hop pop songs, some of which I like, but it gets old quick when the playlist contains 7 songs and 3 different artists. I'm looking at you, Lil' Wayne. Why the hell does he get to be featured in seemingly every single pop song that's not Britney Spears' "Circus"? that might not even be the name of the song. i don't remember writing the previous sentence.
Tonight i cleared my schedule and blew off my friends so that I could take drugs. 15mg hydrocodone, .75mg alprazolam (i gotta be careful with the shit) and i'm drinking some coffee to stay awake. it's too strong but i'm dealing. im planning to smoke a bowl later :D.
You ever get that feeling where you just can't get the right words to conjure in your head, and it makes you uncomfortable when you have to settle for the incorrect words? And no, this happened at work today while I was sober. It pissed me off. Maybe because I was just so fed up with this long annoying project I was working on. That's as much as I'm gonna say about the job because I wish to remain anonymous.
I'm someone conflicted though...i want my writings, no matter how irrelevant they are to other people or how shitty and unorganized they are, to be available on google or something, but I can't make them appear. Perhaps the domain hasn't been around long enough? I know you can register for dmoz.org or something but I couldn't quite figure out how to do it.
I'm taking the drugs to feel something different tonight. there's been too much same.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
don't want to lose this writing about Paris.
I did this a while ago and had it edited. I'm still very happy with it. I'm posting it here.
But one thing about Peter Szitas that was so prominent, yet ambiguous was his lack of any exotic cultural traits. A man of Hungarian descent, yet born and raised in the outskirts of Stockholm, raised on items of American culture and the popular media. He had no accent at all, he could have been living in the San Fernando Valley all his life and his Swedish tongue was so difficult to discern like a king snakes rattle from a corner of a crowded room, which would appear only at every other while and one wouldn’t raise any a thought or pondering moment about it.
He had been working as a bouncer he told me but I forget what motives brought him to Paris. Perhaps they were enrichment or just for leisure, reasons somewhat like mine, but we both understood that while we were unsure of an exact reason to be here – perhaps looking for something or just wanting to have some fun – we were here and we were gonna make the most of our time in this foreign city of exploration with childish wonder.
Who cared what the cynics said? When we took chances to say crude or offend there was no harm in good fun laughing off the absurdities of “Cabinetes Automatique” and weird lights in the redlightdistrict Pigalle and most days ended with us failing to find a GOOD AND CHEAP bar (had to be both we insisted on it) and disappointed but sometimes they ended with us buying our own liquor or beers from the local grocers and playing cards with our suitemates so it really didn’t matter what the cynics said in the end.
And every day ended in the end because we were a featherplume’s drift away from vagabonds and because when hostels run out you gotta find couches but we had the security of Lucky Youth on our side. Every day ended in a makeshift bed, whether a cot or converted couch in our fanciful hostel’d apartmentsuite and without regard to the hours of sleep we got we woke up with the vigor of Norse berserkers in the heat of battle but we lived for peace between common men, at least here we did. And no matter what, each day was a new beginning of a silly comic strip about toilet humor and mistranslations, there were no bounds or cares just disturbances of confusion sitting on a scale of droll and jest but I say we as a collective because I spent time with a number of other hostelmates but it wasn’t until my second week with suitemates that I discovered something and I think it was Peter who contributed and made me realize this the most: It didn’t matter nothing mattered just our joy and we were here to make the most of our time in this strange metropolis of images and sounds.
While I thought I had fun chasing museums by myself and taking pictures of art, I didn’t realize it until the second week it’s the journey that matters most. And while we weren’t really going anywhere, only residing back at the lodging to eat a meal or rest, we were going everywhere. And sometimes I got lost by myself going in circles failing to read the map correctly I always had a destination: le métro. It was so easy watching and squeezing into it but I chatted with patrons only sometimes and I felt more toward looking about sometimes in demure and primed myself to be affectedly modest as some folks stared at the American heart seared into my wrist. And it felt so nice to be the foreigner and not the local for once.
thank you
But one thing about Peter Szitas that was so prominent, yet ambiguous was his lack of any exotic cultural traits. A man of Hungarian descent, yet born and raised in the outskirts of Stockholm, raised on items of American culture and the popular media. He had no accent at all, he could have been living in the San Fernando Valley all his life and his Swedish tongue was so difficult to discern like a king snakes rattle from a corner of a crowded room, which would appear only at every other while and one wouldn’t raise any a thought or pondering moment about it.
He had been working as a bouncer he told me but I forget what motives brought him to Paris. Perhaps they were enrichment or just for leisure, reasons somewhat like mine, but we both understood that while we were unsure of an exact reason to be here – perhaps looking for something or just wanting to have some fun – we were here and we were gonna make the most of our time in this foreign city of exploration with childish wonder.
Who cared what the cynics said? When we took chances to say crude or offend there was no harm in good fun laughing off the absurdities of “Cabinetes Automatique” and weird lights in the redlightdistrict Pigalle and most days ended with us failing to find a GOOD AND CHEAP bar (had to be both we insisted on it) and disappointed but sometimes they ended with us buying our own liquor or beers from the local grocers and playing cards with our suitemates so it really didn’t matter what the cynics said in the end.
And every day ended in the end because we were a featherplume’s drift away from vagabonds and because when hostels run out you gotta find couches but we had the security of Lucky Youth on our side. Every day ended in a makeshift bed, whether a cot or converted couch in our fanciful hostel’d apartmentsuite and without regard to the hours of sleep we got we woke up with the vigor of Norse berserkers in the heat of battle but we lived for peace between common men, at least here we did. And no matter what, each day was a new beginning of a silly comic strip about toilet humor and mistranslations, there were no bounds or cares just disturbances of confusion sitting on a scale of droll and jest but I say we as a collective because I spent time with a number of other hostelmates but it wasn’t until my second week with suitemates that I discovered something and I think it was Peter who contributed and made me realize this the most: It didn’t matter nothing mattered just our joy and we were here to make the most of our time in this strange metropolis of images and sounds.
While I thought I had fun chasing museums by myself and taking pictures of art, I didn’t realize it until the second week it’s the journey that matters most. And while we weren’t really going anywhere, only residing back at the lodging to eat a meal or rest, we were going everywhere. And sometimes I got lost by myself going in circles failing to read the map correctly I always had a destination: le métro. It was so easy watching and squeezing into it but I chatted with patrons only sometimes and I felt more toward looking about sometimes in demure and primed myself to be affectedly modest as some folks stared at the American heart seared into my wrist. And it felt so nice to be the foreigner and not the local for once.
thank you
xanax and coffee
xanax and coffee
xanax and coffee
the gravity pulling's so strong, the hot air holding up the parachute frivolous
but the gravity feels essential, i have so much and paid so little nothing for it
no one knows who marcus nagelberg really is,
at least not yet,
and I hope they don't find out
sitting in a hole, waiting for a rope
but i've got to work my way building footwells up
to better stick my rubber souls
this is not a poem, just thinking calculated, simplified
I do not want to write poetry. I have done it before. But it seems so...socially unacceptable
the mentor would say, "why should you care?" i'd say image is everything.
private, public, it really does matter. he'd say, "do what makes you feel better, and ignore the naysayers." i'd say, "i'm already coping"
i'm over psychotherapy.
i loved the guy to death, and he worked with famous people, I felt so pampered in his cozy little lounge. But benefits died and money felt tight. I paid for a few when I could. When I had all that money. The money didn't matter when I had a lot of it but it means so much when there's less of it and many more options
xanax and coffee
the gravity pulling's so strong, the hot air holding up the parachute frivolous
but the gravity feels essential, i have so much and paid so little nothing for it
no one knows who marcus nagelberg really is,
at least not yet,
and I hope they don't find out
sitting in a hole, waiting for a rope
but i've got to work my way building footwells up
to better stick my rubber souls
this is not a poem, just thinking calculated, simplified
I do not want to write poetry. I have done it before. But it seems so...socially unacceptable
the mentor would say, "why should you care?" i'd say image is everything.
private, public, it really does matter. he'd say, "do what makes you feel better, and ignore the naysayers." i'd say, "i'm already coping"
i'm over psychotherapy.
i loved the guy to death, and he worked with famous people, I felt so pampered in his cozy little lounge. But benefits died and money felt tight. I paid for a few when I could. When I had all that money. The money didn't matter when I had a lot of it but it means so much when there's less of it and many more options
other people's blogs, other people's lives
The "next blog ->" function in Blogger sucks. There's no way to filter your results, and 90% of the time I use it the shit is in a foreign language.
here's how I cope with community college lately. 0.25/0.3mg Xanax (it's hard to split the pill into quarters) and a large coffee. it works decently for better or for worse, but it's still the little things in life that bring me down.
the fact that I have to carry around a big book all day in one hand because my car is too long a walk away to make it worthwhile
the fact that it's so cold in my house in the morning that I wear my thicker jacket, and it gets intensely warm (or I perceive it that way) so i either carry it around too, or just wear it and get sweaty.
the xanax makes me a little bit confused sometimes too. like this morning I deduced that the coffee from the machine was cheaper than from the cafe, but there are no lids. I sneak beverages into the library all the time but i don't feel comfortable doing it when it doesn't have a lid. so I walked past the library toward the cafe to see if I can get a lid. halfway through I find myself stuck, put down the drink, look to the sky and think "what the fuck am I doing?" I go get the lid, return to the library, content but not quite content, but the deed is done. I think my priorities are screwed up.
here's how I cope with community college lately. 0.25/0.3mg Xanax (it's hard to split the pill into quarters) and a large coffee. it works decently for better or for worse, but it's still the little things in life that bring me down.
the fact that I have to carry around a big book all day in one hand because my car is too long a walk away to make it worthwhile
the fact that it's so cold in my house in the morning that I wear my thicker jacket, and it gets intensely warm (or I perceive it that way) so i either carry it around too, or just wear it and get sweaty.
the xanax makes me a little bit confused sometimes too. like this morning I deduced that the coffee from the machine was cheaper than from the cafe, but there are no lids. I sneak beverages into the library all the time but i don't feel comfortable doing it when it doesn't have a lid. so I walked past the library toward the cafe to see if I can get a lid. halfway through I find myself stuck, put down the drink, look to the sky and think "what the fuck am I doing?" I go get the lid, return to the library, content but not quite content, but the deed is done. I think my priorities are screwed up.
content
still feel good about applying to that one school. I know I'll get in. I'm sure I'll visit and I'm sure I'll go. It's expensive though. I haven't qualified for a fee waiver from my community college because I made like 13 grand this year, even though I have next to nothing to show for it. god fucking damnit. So I'll pay the tuition, $250~ or so, and file my thing to get health insurance through my dad's employment office. sounds great right? it's way worth it. it just sucks that i'm not technically poor anymore. My dad's tax info is way different since he's been taking out his pensions to pay for his mortgage to make up for the difference in his wages (not salary) now.
he may suck with his money, and I may suck with my money now, but I am determined to never be poor again. so i guess i'll do my homework
he may suck with his money, and I may suck with my money now, but I am determined to never be poor again. so i guess i'll do my homework
Monday, March 2, 2009
publicity
I was thinking about how to create buzz. This is more of an e-journal than anything. I probably wouldn't be interested in other people's lives. Unless they're interesting, well-written, and I can learn something from them. Hmm.
but i'd probably be better off making a new blog under the same name about a particular subject. i'm just not sure if I'm knowledgeable enough about one category of something in this world worth blogging about...to really blog about. but it would bring traffic here, and bring me second opinions, and i'd read their respective blogs.
one blogging tip is to ask questions. if I ask questions and they go unanswered, wouldn't that be embarassing? so I'm not sure if I should ask questions to attempt to generate publicity, or wait until I have a few viewers and then ask. fuck it.
so I will ask the world, what is worth blogging about? if someone is reading this from a few years forward, and sees that this post still has zero comments, just remember that i am an amateur. thank you.
what is worth blogging about?
but i'd probably be better off making a new blog under the same name about a particular subject. i'm just not sure if I'm knowledgeable enough about one category of something in this world worth blogging about...to really blog about. but it would bring traffic here, and bring me second opinions, and i'd read their respective blogs.
one blogging tip is to ask questions. if I ask questions and they go unanswered, wouldn't that be embarassing? so I'm not sure if I should ask questions to attempt to generate publicity, or wait until I have a few viewers and then ask. fuck it.
so I will ask the world, what is worth blogging about? if someone is reading this from a few years forward, and sees that this post still has zero comments, just remember that i am an amateur. thank you.
what is worth blogging about?
more stuff
I should have trusted my dad. The $750 was only the estimated value of the laptop! We'll be getting $2100 or so total, which is excellent. I'm gonna buy a new laptop soon. Haven't heard from the police or detectives, stopped caring, might call, but doubt that they'll tell me very much. Applied to that certain school, wrote a smashing essay and put all my eggs in a basket that has 95% a chance of profit. it should be okay. i can try again next time and have been content with my situation. you only need a pulse to go to community college. it's not a dump by any means though, all my professors sans a computer science teacher have doctorates, not like they just pick people off the street to educate me. but it's not a real college away from home. dad says I should go away, because I've "lived too much of my life here". he's right.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)