If you love something, you are probably wasting your time.

She hasn't done anything wrong, but this isnt working for me and I don't want it anymore.

She can be wonderful for someone else. I can go back to being lonely because I'm alone, not because i feel unwanted.

All will be right in the world. As right as it ever gets, anyway.

Now to get it over with and get on with life.

"The cheese is named after the city of Gouda not because it was produced in or around that city, but because it was traded there.^[4] In the Middle Ages, Dutch cities could obtain certain feudal rights which gave them primacy or a total monopoly on certain goods. Within the County of Holland, Gouda acquired market rights on cheese, the sole right to have a market in which the county's farmers could sell their cheese. All the cheeses would be taken to the market square in Gouda to be sold. Teams consisting of the guild of cheese-porters, identified by differently colored straw hats, carried the farmers' cheeses on barrows, which typically weighed about 16 kg. Buyers then sampled the cheeses and negotiated a price using a ritual system called handjeklap in which buyers and sellers clap each other's hands and shout prices. Once a price was agreed upon, the porters would carry the cheese to the weighing house and complete the sale.<sup>[5]"

Gouda accounts for roughly half of all global cheese consumption, and according to wiki it's pretty fuckin' whimsical.</sup>

I wonder what happens when the views hit 10,000. Guess we'll see.

I was just re-reading shit from the last time I wrote here instead of in the notebook I've been using, and it's fucking amazing to see that pretty much everything I'm saying now is just a more refined version of the same shit I was saying a few months ago, which was a more refined version of the same shit I was saying what, ten years ago, which is probably the same shit I was writing back when I had piles of notebooks.

I'm glad I've evolved and developed so much in my life, really changed for the better and generally just been a dynamic, interesting person.

Fuck, man. Peak mediocrity.

Also, from a few months ago:

"I need one of them tattoo'd animal shelter chicks who cries about how mean people are to ants or something. A radical shift in the exact opposite direction things have been."

I mean that's actually pretty close, putting aside obvious exaggeration, lmao.

Turns out I have no idea what to do with one of those and what I need is a person sized pillow that gives you dreams about watching netflix with the perfect woman or something.

Or one that just shoots you up and makes you all warm for a few hours. That sounds much lower tech and possible to accomplish.

I bet there's a huge fucking market for that. Both those things, the dream pillow or the old blanket with some needles stuffed in it.

This is the worst.

There's nothing wrong. Work is ok. I got the girl and she's fun and normal and really just great. I'm unhappy with my living situation right this second, but it's objectively not that bad. I haven't really been drinking, just smoking a little too much, and smoking too many cigarettes, but all in all I'm pretty good on that front.

Pretty much nothing is objectively great. The job is shit and entry level, the girl is much too far out of  my league to stick around and it's pretty evident that she won't, the living situation isn't objectively that good either. I haven't been drinking only because it just bums me out, and I've been smoking just because it makes me a little more realistic and introspective on why I'm bummed out (which, I mean, is sometimes much better and sometimes much worse), but it is, in the end, probably making things much worse.

I have some good friends. I don't like most of them, or just can't deal with their dramatic shit regularly, but they aren't bad people and probably do care about me a little.

And so on and so on. I just fucking hate it. This is the worst. This is peak mediocrity and I didn't even think that concept could exist.

I don't want to do this anymore but I don't know what to do.

The real problem is that as a human, I just don't really fit. I don't know what else I'd fit as, but I'm just not like these people, even the ones I have things in common with.

And while I'm rational enough to realize a lot of people probably feel like this, it doesn't mean you can fit with those people, because that could well be the only commonality.

I'm tired of it, man. And I think everything else wrong with me in the sense of getting depressed really just stems from that feeling. Or maybe it doesn't. I don't know, I don't think there's anything more than just gut feeling to go with on that, or any way to be more sure.

I wonder if there's a pill for this somewhere. A little orange thing that turns you into everyone else and lets you relate and just kinda float around through life. I don't want to exist like this anymore, but it's not like I don't want to exist, period, and I think I'd take well to some kind of autopilot setting.

Actually, what I'm thinking of sounds a lot like opiates. It would be great to just be able to feel stoned as fuck and watching the show while your body just does everything for you.

Maybe I'll try some anti-depressants and see what happens there. Even if it doesn't get you stoned, maybe it will autopilot a bit.

I have a handful of real things to worry about anyway. I should probably stop being such a bitch and get to work on the affect-able things like finding a new place to rent.

The River of Dreams

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fo_vn_Ilsu8

Her name means River.

Things didn't work out. But I feel good. I'd say they might still, but that's not what I feel good about, nor to I feel good about those odds.

I did the right thing.

Anyway.

I realized I don't look at love the same way other people do.

I don't think you fall in love. I think you fall out of it.

The usual way it seems to work for people is that they meet. They spend time together. They build something, and they find something they love about that thing, about each other, that they put in effort and dedication to keep and protect. It's progressive, and I can see why it's the way it works.

But it doesn't make sense to me. It's not how I work, I guess.

I fall in love with everyone, every minute of the day. I find something that just makes me shine, something that I see and go "wow, that's it. Right there." And that pushes me forward, it gives me this overwhelming drive to be around that sparkle, to be able to share in it. To be part of why it happens.

And usually, I get to. And it's always awesome. For a while.

Here's where love comes in. After a while, it seems like that shine usually dulls up a little, and while I usually try to polish it back out, it's difficult to make something old and everyday seem bright and novel.

Love, real love, for me, is always finding that thing novel, no matter what. Never not shining just because things are always shining.

Lisa said for her, it was like breathing. Despite our differences in what we want out of life, I think that's a good way of putting it, and actually pretty close to my line of thinking. She's a clever one.

Of course, both statements imply there's no work involved in this, which isn't the case. There's always going to be something. And people can always change.

But I think so long as you never lose sight of the glow, things work.

I don't think anything is happening with this, now, but I think if I'm wrong, and it does, things will work. I'd rather do things the right way, to try to make sure it plays out that way if it plays at all, than to just play around because it's a chance to be in the game.

That's what I think love is, anyway.

But here's what it actually looks like these days, because my beer is a little bitter, and it imbues a guy with that trait pretty easily. Let's turn to the more realistic side of this situation, and just the way existence allows for things in general, lately.

It sucks to even bother to worry. Or think. Or try. Like. What's the point?

Everyone can shine somehow, everyone can look right, not everyone, or rather, nearly no one, can keep it up. Not in the long term.

Anyone can keep it up for a night. Easily.

And that's amazing in it's own way. It's permanent. That one night light, it doesn't really dim or go out, because it exists alone. It's separate from reality. It's just a splinter of a moment that gets left behind when everyone is finished up and out the door. And it's all that gets left behind.

There's a beauty there, in what is left and taken.

When you let someone stay the night, or the day, or the week, or the year, you are opening a very different door for yourself. No one who is leaving is just leaving a good memory behind, and no one who enters is doing so just for that potential.

You're opening you. and anyone who comes in is going to see you, and everything that happens from there on out is going to, in some way, be about you.

When it's only one night, it's not like anyone actually really knows you. So they leave a shine.

When it's not, then you can't deny they did. And then they just leave you.

So really. Love.

Behind the building with Katie the Bartender doesn't seem like the worst place to find it sometimes.

The last couple posts have all been very preemptive.

I'm not sure why I have this anymore, truly. I guess because I'm just not used to not.

I probably could have helped you. I won't say saved, but maybe, just for this one moment, it might not be that far off.

But you're not one who can help me, and I don't think you really want to.

That's ok. I don't really want it anymore. I'm better this way anyway.

So, apparently that was a second to last post. Here's why:

Tonight everything worked out for me. See, there's this woman. And she is incredible, and always has been.

And I now know she's in to me.

And I'm so sure I will fuck it up and wreck things and lose her forever and all the usual.

But here's the deal.

After I found out she was in to me, all those thoughts flashed through my head. And then I thought "well shit, I can't even talk about this to the person I would usually tell it to, because that's her".

But then I realized I didn't. That's a big part of why I want this, and that's a big part of why it's incredible.

Nothing's changed, we just have a much better chance of sharing the same bed now.

Being into your best friend. Now that's amazing.

This one is about you, if you somehow couldn't have guessed.

So here's the deal.

you wanna know how things end for me?

I'm going to kill myself.

It's not a cry for help. The one person I've shared this with that I actually know has told me she doesn't read it. She was worried that would make her a bad friend. Not the case at all. I never impressed the importance of reading this on her. Nor should I expect some random fucking person to give a shit about me. That's really what it is. I'm ok with that.

This is going to be my last post, dear readers. It doesn't mean I've offed myself. As far as I can tell, that's at least five years away.

The simple reality is that I don't want to do this anymore.

I don't want this life anymore. You can say "it's never too late", but I don't think that's relevant. Let me present you with a problem you, and no one else, can solve. Is it "never too late" to solve the unsolvable?

You might think so. In that case, you don't get it. And that's ok.

Here's an easy way to break it down.

If I were to just dissapear tomorrow, here's the people who would miss me:

1. My parents. Dad would wish he could have given me something better. The reality is that he gave me the best he ever could. He's a great person and a great dad. Mom is a similar case. In the end, me being gone would be a bigger issue to her because it would reflect badly on her, though. I don't want to reflect badly on anyone.

2. Work. Because I'm fucking GOOD at it. Really though, they wouldn't care. I mean, as with my similar post a few months ago, they'd notice that I'd stopped coming in. Probably pretty quickly, as I'm easily the best worker there.

Otherwise. Nah. I mean. No one reads this blog. As mentioned, it's because I never stated such a thing was important. No blame on anyone else. But like. No one reads this blog because it's just not that important to them.

And I think that can be extrapolated into me being not that important to them.

Which is fine. But not something I want to live with.

So here's what happened to me, long after I stopped posting here:

I killed myself after my parents, the only people it mattered to, died. It wasn't so bad. Maybe, dear random ass reader, we met on the other side. Maybe we didn't and that doesn't exist. I don't know. But you can consider this a final note on this blog, and, should someone read this in the future, after that has happened, you can maybe consider it part of many revelatory posts.

In other news, fighting with the kiddo's mom. Among other people. I'm not sure why things need to be that way. I'm basically trying to give you money, more money than you are legally entitled to, because I want to actually be able to help our kid, and help you get through school, since you seem to have a strange financial arrangement with your husband where you don't get to use any of his money (which makes me think you're probably just relying on my support payments and student loans for non-essential things in life). I could use a little bit of the benefit of the doubt here that I'm somehow trying to fuck with you or hide my income. Maybe once you're through school, and making three times what I do in a year, I'll feel it's more fair to not have to give you anything.

And I think I got the message, elsewhere and in regards to other things. Which is disappointing I guess, but ehhh. Other things will work out in other ways, I guess.

I don't know, man. Who does, really? It's been a long, downer of a day. I'm pretty excited for tomorrow, no matter how it turns out or what I end up doing. I won't be today, at least.

I went for coffee with a friend, and then had a beer and took a nap.

I keep having a recurring dream when I nap.

It starts off in this weird version of my parent's house. They aren't usually around, and it's always night time. They have this roommate who doesn't do anything but sleep and drink beer, and laugh lecherously at random things. Gee, I wonder who that represents.

Things take some twists and turns, described by myself in dream as "a shitty bizzaro version of Miami Vice" for some reason. I end up leaving the house, and it's daylight again.

The house is where Kin Park is back in Dawson, like smack dab in the middle of the big dip across from the middle school, except it sits on a hill in the center of the dip. The street across from it, where my grandparent's old, old house was, is all overgrown with little willows and birch trees. The house is still there, but nothing else is, just the street and then the start of a forest.

I go to cross the street, because I have to meet someone. There's a dude in an old red firebird parked a little ways down, and he calls me over. He's wearing a rumpled tan suit, is shortish and pudgy and balding. I don't know his name, but he looks like an Arnold. I'm pretty sure he's a cop.

"Going to Charlie's place, eh?" he says.

"Yup."

He gives me a cheeseburger and a screwdriver, and says "Here, you'll need these more than I do."

I try to give them back, but he insists he has extras. So I take them, but somehow lose them on the way to Charlie's.

Charlie's sits a little in the forest - it's this old, green, sort of bus looking thing with the front half of the roof missing. Sometimes he pulls in as I get there, making his way through the trees somehow, and sometimes he's already there. Either way, by the time I get close, he's parked and the shrubbery has grown into the bus, making it look like it's been there for 20 years. He pops out the side door.

Charlie kinda looks like Jared Leto in Alexander, but with a couple decades of meth in his system. He's scraping resin out of his pipe with a screwdriver, and then scraping the screwdriver with a big pair of scissors. I wonder if I'm here to buy drugs.

"About fuckin' time, man. Here, I got you a cheeseburger." He throws a huge McDonald's burger into the forest. "Catch."

I go looking for it, because I somehow feel it's maybe important I can prove I somehow caught his fast-pitched meat product, but it's invariably bounced open and gotten stuck in a tree. "Nice catch, asshole. Come on."

He goes into the bus thing.

It's much, much larger on the inside than on the outside, and looks like every single clapboard trailer in the world has been bolted together, and then filled with generic hillbilly junk that you usually see populating people's yards in low income areas. The sound of rain and thunder from somewhere in the front, as well as the lack of echo in his voice as he moves around in places unseen, lead me to believe the front roof really is missing, even if it's not actually a bus. He's talking about something, but I'm not sure what, though it seems important.

I catch up to him, finally, as he puts down his scissors and screwdriver on a yellowing deep freezer. "I'll go get them, hang tight."

I know this is my chance, so I grab the screwdriver, palming it behind my wrist while I sit on a floral print futon in the next "room". He comes back a minute later, and picks up the scissors.

He mumbles something, to which I reply, "sorry, what was that?"

"I..you..have it.." he mumbles again. I ask again.

"I KNOW YOU HAVE MY SCREW DRIVER YOU LITTLE FUCKING PRICK", he screams, and he turns on me, his face contorted with rage.

And then I wake up.

--------------

You got all unhappy that I wasn't responding a ton today. I just didn't feel like talking about your problems anymore. I didn't feel like talking to anyone, really, but I really didn't want to do that specifically. Find some new topics. Not literally everything has to be about how shitty your life is, or at least, it doesn't have to be how your life is shitty in the same three ways, over and over and over. There is legitimately just nothing else left to say about it on my end.

I wonder if I do that to other people. I'd like to think I don't.

Anyway, I then make a concentrated effort to talk to you anyway, and you just get mopey and stop responding, or send a bunch of GIFs. What am I supposed to do with that?

It's totally fine if you decide you just don't feel like talking after all, but maybe say that instead of deciding you don't, seeing as you've just complained for 20 minutes about how it seems like I don't feel like talking.

This is like when you go on and on about how you aren't sure things are working in super incomprehensible terms (I don't know if you think it's super artsy or some shit, but it makes actually communicating with you super impossible because I never have any idea what the fuck you're talking about and really rarely feel like asking, since you won't ever clarify), and then just don't come online for a few days, and then get upset that I have actual real life things to do here that I try to talk about and explain concisely in regards to why they may make me unavailable for a few hours.

Here's a legit excerpt from tonight's conversation:

Me (talking about a cat, like one of the few other things you talk about): Oh. It's good you got some snuggles, then

You: *gif of a wall*

Me: Was ist das?

You, 20  minutes later: A wall and the world between and away you're on the other side mustn't you be on the other side

Me, who, while enjoying deep thought on occasion, doesn't feel like doing the Alice In Wonderland dance tonight: Who says?

You: My nightmares, the bears are directly ahead and devour me and it all seems to be because I can't paint you as in my world. Fixing different problems I try to repaint everything else around me around where you were


Me, because even though I get what you're saying, having had this exact conversation every night for months now, don't feel like talking it through anymore: So, what are you planning to do about it, then?

To which I'm sure I'll get some more bullshit about living in a tent.


I am getting angry and bitter and I don't like it one bit.

I'd rather find out if Charlie stabs me to death or not, or if I get him first.

Man, I don't know what I'm doing anymore.

Most things are good. Some important things are not.

Some important things seem like they could be, but it's not really worth taking the chance and making other people sad to accomplish.

I think more than anything, it's all just very frustrating. I know what I want, but I'm so uncertain of the reality of it that I'm not going to bother to actually make a play to go get it.

I hate feeling like this. I sort of have this feeling I'm going to get hung up over nothing, and that's just stupid.

On the plus side, I've started drinking again and that's pretty nice. It's not like I have some reason not to anymore.

Well fuck it. This booze isn't even making me feel drunk.

What a fucking lame night. I mean, the best conversation I had was about how everything sucks now and used to be better when we were kids, with some random person I don't have a ton of interest in ever talking to again. I have one beer left. The wine is gone, the vodka's gone, and the shit, super sweet whiskey is super shit.

I think I'm gonna ride my bike down to the beach after all. Waterbottle of this shit whiskey, and the fucking beer, I guess. Maybe I'll meet someone interesting. It happens. Shame the water is so fucking cold.

Shame everything is so fucking cold sometimes.

Man, you know what I actually really need?

I need a big old bottle of T1s and a screwdriver.

That fixes shit well enough more often than not, and worst comes to worst, I'll just fall asleep for a bit and wake up tomorrow, maybe feeling more like I want to be alive.

Shame I don't have ten fucking dollars anymore. I need to go collect my money from the neighbors tomorrow. It's been a few months and I'm betting I could knock myself right on my ass quite satisfactorily.

Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat.

Right, so.

I think that was indeed a good example. Me having dated two friends really doesn't seem horribly relevant to me, and, perhaps it's simply due to that, but I have trouble seeing it as relevant to you.

It's just a lack of interest in that sense. Which, hey, I'm good with. It might shock you to know that that some kind of romance isn't really my motivation here, or why I'm interested in talking to you. It's a pretty thought, but not a realistic one. If I had a dime for every pretty thought out there, I really could spend the rest of my life drunk. I don't, but I'm still pretty good with things remaining like that.

But I think as an example, it illustrates my point pretty well. I get pretty old, pretty quick. There's a certain sort of person that I'm simply never going to have much luck with.

But I really don't feel like talking about that. I've talked about enough shitty things tonight. And like, what's the point? Rehashing shit I already know about myself, telling it to someone else in the hopes of what? Like, what's the ideal end game with something like that? Who gains anything?

What's the point of rehashing it all here? I've spent 20 years knowing what the deal is here. I know the score, yo.


I'm not sure getting drunk is going to do much to cheer me up this evening. I don't know what would. I think I'm gonna get fucked up and go ride my bike until I puke.

Oh christ. This is why I can't be drunk all the time. I remember now, I'm old enough to get hangovers.

Have you ever talked to someone, and wondered if they are actually a real person, or obsequious to the point that they seem unbelievably real?

Like.

I don't know. I'm off balance right now, and that's incredibly rare.

But if you're real, if this is how you see life, if this is how you feel and react and just.... if this is how things are for you, I'm so very, very glad to count you as someone who is in my life.

I don't know.

This one is about you, dear perhaps reader.

Ayyy it's april and 27 above

I'm fucking exhausted. I'm about to get pretty smashed, but I think I've earned it. And I also made the mistake of drinking with my new Portuguese buddy at like 3 PM, a bunch of lame craft beer, so I'm pretty sure I'm slightly hungover. One of the beers was called Nut Dark, which sounded to me like tanning solution for your testes. It was pretty shit.

I've been pretty less than positive on this thing lately. I think it's more interesting to read, but it's also kind of depressing.

So some good things about life before I go get drunk and rant about crap:

It's beautiful here. Like, so, so sunny, all the time.

I did get a job. Nothing fancy, which is how I wanted it. But I think it's very well thought out in terms of my pseudo-long term plan.

I can get anywhere by bike, and there's lots of good places to go. Today I went to the beach and made friends with this really chill duck. He just kinda stood around next to me while I sat and listened to music.

It really is always beautiful here. I've been riding the bike around a lot, and going to the beach alot. The one picture up there is from last night. I stopped, had a smoke and a beer, and talked to this very nice homeless lady. We had an interesting conversation about.... well, she had an interesting conversation about something. Then she invited me to live with her. I declined, but it was nice to think I made the lonely homeless person a little less lonely for a little bit.

Anyway, that's all the positive thinking I can do for the moment. Shortly, I'll be drunk, and you can bet I'll be back.

This was a beautiful post, but nope. NOPE.

Kisses, and the stars in your eyes.

OH MY FUCKING LORD.

So yeah, some things never change.

You, of all people, show up in my messages, and start asking about things that were put to rest a decade ago.

Fuck off, dude. I literally JUST started the director's cut thing on the blog, and spent like all of yesterday correcting myself on how much you've changed, and you're here fucking around and trying to get me to validate you behind your boyfriend's back. That's not my job anymore, and it's not something I'm huge on doing either.

AND NOW I'M DOING IT ANYWAY. WHAT THE FUCK.

Though to be honest, this has perked me up. I mean, it's obviously just crescendo time, but hey.

So I'm going to turn this around on you, yo. If you wanna talk about a bunch of super intense shit that hasn't mattered for years, and act like there was some point or meaning there, while I'm coincidentally writing about how nothing has fucking changed, you can tell me about how you deal with nothing having fucking changed for you either.

Oh man. Miss me with that soulmates shit. Maybe the joke is kinda over for me? It *is* still a joke, no? You reeally want to get into that? You reeeally don't think that's maybe something we should have outgrown?

Here you go then, have my soul.

And then try to find an appropriate response to it. Because you know me so well, you truly do. And you know that there isn't going to be a response you can provide that works.

But I'll give you credit where it's due - you did pretty good, even if we both know it's meaningless. The meaning doesn't matter. Maybe I was right after all in saying you've changed a bit.

Either way, despite the shock and shudder that I initially felt, I wish nothing but the best for you, luv. Me? Well, I'm just going to fall in love and die every minute of every day.

All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain.

Anyway, different frustration. Since that's what I'm full of tonight.

You know what's pretty fucking goofy?

For all that's changed, nothing really has.

When I was a kid, I would sit alone in my room for hours, hiding from reality. Getting drunk and writing, and listening to music and staying up late. Consuming whatever was around me, wine, and vodka, and just utterly pointless knowledge, trying to just slow my brain the fuck down and bury myself in a warm layer of dissociation.

Now I'm just about thirty, and what am I doing? I'm sitting alone in my room, hiding from reality. Getting drunk and writing, listening to music and staying up late. Consuming whatever is around me, even if it's awful rum, and even more pointless knowledge, even though I know none of this actually fucking works. It's even pretty much the same fucking music.

But what else do I do, dear reader? I can't just go through "the motions", so I created my own movement, and I go through that instead.

This is the beginning, the build. I sit, and I sip, and I absorb. I chase the feeling, that wonderful feeling that tells me things I already know - everything, of course, will be ok, because it's not that bad. It's been 28 years of not that bad, and it will probably be another 28. And that's not that bad.

Soon, the second movement comes. It's not that feeling, because that isn't how this works anymore, and no matter what I consume, it simply never works like t

No, that's not true.

The happiest night in memory was when I found something stronger, and it did work. Disgustingly so.

But ignore that. It's a story for another time. This, this never works. But the feeling still builds, and the music flows through me. The world is poetry, soon enough. And comes a creshendo where I ask myself

Why can't I just do this all the time?

And you know, I still don't have an answer to that. There's worse ways to be.

My reality is simply that. I know it can be modified, and I work towards the modifications that will bring me fulfillment. But the simple truth of this, my simple, irrepressible truth, is that nothing will compare to this.

I have experienced so much. Things that I know most others will never dream of. Stars fighting on the shoulders of Orion, so to speak. I have done so much. I have lived.

But none of it compares. I'd rather spend every minute, of every day, of the rest of my time, be it finite and ending, or stretching beyond the realms of imagination and knowledge, doing exactly what I'm doing right now.

And as the poetry climaxes, as this crescendo falls around me, I know that this is how it should be. This is the ultimate. The magnum opus of my life is contained within this glass, and though it should be horrific, a waste, a sad reality rather than a thing of ecstasy, it simply isn't. That's the perception of others. That's the expectation of those around me. That is not the reality for me.

But then comes the

Well, the part where I get distracted and lose interest in writing. Some things really never do change.

But you know, I'm in this beautiful place. There is that.

I think I'm going to finish this rum, go down to the beach, and look at the stars.