On seasonal interludes

In case you hadn't noticed, I am truly terrible at blogging. You may at any time replace the verb with general writing/caring/adulting/living.

I need a space. Or, discipline. Or both. Let's say both.

No, that's untrue. I have a space, but lack the strength for the mental gymnastics I put myself through to use it. Reasons. Dumb fucking reasons, if I'm going to be honest. A giant majority of my life's problems can be solved with the term "Nut the fuck up." I mean, this is what we're talking about it.

I owe MF* a story. It's looming. Like one of those Acme anvils. Or was it a piano? Let's say both.

I feel out of it. The opposite of in it. Random sentences running through my brain like, I'm sorry, who invited you. I fell onto you, too. And into and through. And there was no another. Remember? I do. It's like when you get divebombed by any number of cringey memories of that one time you were a total fucking hosebag/said that thing/did that thing/ruined everything and your shoulders draw up and you wince and you just want to crawl back into your own vagina and die. Shit that happened a week ago, a year ago, ten years ago. Lesson learned in old age: you will always be the most embarrassing person you know. You will always manage to have the worst shit imaginable fall out of your mouth. You will always be vulnerable and sad and demented and you will tell yourself it's okay but it probably isn't.

I am spending a lot of time thinking about a life that is not mine, and not in that optimistic fantasy-is-therapeutic way, but in that kind of dark, self-deprecating, wow-you-fucked-that-one-up-big-time way. I don't know. There's a book -- or at least a solid information tract -- down that road, and I don't have time. Who does, anymore.

I am going to try to take my space when I need it.



*Ha. MF. That is fucking great. English, motherfucker. Do you speak it.