I hate to admit it, but I miss Ewan. I feel like I miss everyone these days. He's never home. I'm usually home alone. I used to love that. Now I hate it.
I had a really fun night with him and S---- last night, though. We talked about everything. S---- asked about my childhood a lot. I talked about it. I asked her about hers. I asked Ewan if I overstayed my welcome, which I always ask whenever she's over. Usually, I don't interact with them at all, or I attempt to test the waters with how long I stay outside my room. It seems like regardless of what I do, I end up making them uncomfortable at some point. If I stay in my room, Ewan insists, "You live here, too, y'know," but if I hang out with them too long, he's like, "It's not really a problem at all, but you could have left twenty minutes earlier. Like, when we're all just sitting their in silence, and you're just repeating the same three words over and over again, it's like, yeah. Again, it's not a problem." This, for whatever reason, made me unbelievably upset. I didn't show it at all, though. I was just like, "Yeah, true. I've just resigned to the fact that my relationship with S---- will be inherently awkward." But, truth be told, it made me fucking hate Ewan and myself. I went on this rant to him right after where I described the contents of my day, where I wake up, go to class, and just amuse myself to death until I fall asleep at 2 in the morning, and I don't remember sounding angry. I remember sounding sarcastic and self-deprecating. But he texted me this morning asking if I was okay because I sounded "worked up" last night. I didn't leave my room, partially to avoid him, but also because I wasn't thinking about anything. I sat in my room 'til my class was over, which I try not to do. Deep in my brain fog, there was the thought of "Well, I guess I'll never fucking talk to Ewan and S---- ever a-fucking-gain then. Fine by me. I love my bedroom! I don't care you're embarrassed of me (despite him never saying that), I don't care about myself at all. This is all I'll ever be." But him checking in on me sobered me up a bit. I couldn't lie to him. I said I am going through it, but I'll be fine, and thank you for checking.
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I keep ignoring responsibilities. And school. And the future. I keep blocking out the idea that I have a tomorrow to answer to in my head. It makes getting done hard. I'm taking late penalties.
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Every time I think I have this shit beat, where I hype myself up, like, "I'm gonna eat nothing but chicken and rice and vegetables! I'm gonna start working out again! I'm gonna sleep 8 hours a night! I'm gonna go to therapy! I'm gonna go on Wellbutrin! I'm gonna get better!" This shit beats me again. It finds a new way to beat me. I find myself a full work day later in my bed, incapacitated by the feeling that everything in my life is utterly pointless. There's a copy of The Trouble With Being Born by Emil Cioran taunting me on my bookshelf. Jack used to have a copy of that. He said he used to be really into those kinds of books when he was a teenager. He gave it to Enid in the green room at CO*LAB in April. She had a very mild interest in those kinds of books. I have no interest in any kind of books.
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I watched Jack use - or, as his friend (or effectively his coworker), Cali refers to it, "play" - his Linux emulator of Hinge for 10 minutes. Dating seems despairing. I don't mean that in a incel sort of way. Getting close seems despairing. Why bother.
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Me and Ewan used to drive around and yell in his van about how much we disliked politics. Looking back, we were probably talking about something else. It was probably us talking about being unwell, but being able to make origami with theory words to talk about it without freaking out. You know.
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I like the snow. Kaiden wrote a cool thing on his Twitter about life having more edge in the winter time. But my brain is fucked. Nothing matters - but I lie. I wouldn't do drugs or whatever. I wouldn't walk into oncoming traffic. But I feel so little. Perhaps what I'm describing is something more akin to my emotional life feeling very dim, as if there's only a single, dim light holding against an infinite night. There's a similar idea in the first chapter of Gaston Bachelard's The Poetics of Space. I mustered all the strength I had trying to read that last week. I still love my friends. I just feel weak. So weak.
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Masturbation feels entirely without joy. I sometimes try to imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship right now. This absolutely would not help. I've been in relationships where this happens, and it just erodes it. Whatever needs to happen in a relationship can't happen as well as it should. It's like rust in a machine. Gears stop turning as seamless. There's crunching. There's cranking. There's halts. Abrupt pauses. Slow motion. Sluggishness.
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My parents fought long and hard to have me. Long and hard. Literal blood, sweat, and tears. I feel like I came out wrong still. You would think hard work pays off.
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One thing that is keeping me going is Robbie Basho's Songs of the Great Mystery. It's some of the most fascinating American music I've ever heard. His guitar playing is so delicate and powerful and overwhelming and eloquent. His voice is so morose and mysterious. You want to be taken in completely by it. He sings like he's charming snakes. If you ever get the chance, listen to his song "Night Way."
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In between every towering dull moment, there are deep, underwater trenches of suffering and intensities. Every bus stop is a cosmos.
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Need to eat. Then work. Need to work. Then sleep.
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I kind of hate my fucking Instagram. I think about deleting it all the time. A lot of people I know really like it. I have met so many people through it. It's like the thing I'm known for on campus. I have a funny Instagram. All of Ewan's friends talk about it. But it feels soul-sucking sometimes, like it's all I do. I tell jokes into my phone and then like 10 people like it. That's all I do. It's nobody's fault but mine.
