Sometimes my dreams feel more like reality than reality does. Sometimes they seem to be more important, too.

I don't like the sober, quiet moments. They are distant memories that haven't happened yet. They feel like a washy early morning T.V. show, something that is completely unrelateable and only vaguely interesting but really the only thing on. I don't like the speeds my thoughts bounce around at inside my head, or the constant alertness. Or really the subject matter playing out in the theater of my brain. I get over whatever sickness there is to have, and then things seem to slide sideways.

I did a bunch of stupid things in the last few years.

My friend Skylar once told me I seem to have good self-awareness. I think this is true, as I'm pretty aware of many of my qualities and faults, and tend to know how I will react to a foreseen inevitability well before it comes up. I think the big reason I have no claims to enlightenment or some sort of zen-buddah type shit is that I am either too apathetic or lazy to really change anything.

I haven't really figured that one out yet. Sometimes, I will very much so want to do something, but then I will realize it doesn't really matter, given how irrelevant it is in the grand scheme of things and not bother. Other times, I don't bother to do something, then realize that it didn't really matter, given how irrelevant it was in the grand scheme of things.

Sometimes passiveness is a good strategy. Doing things can cause trouble, and once again, in the grand scheme, it is fairly unlikely to matter too much. Conversely, while not doing much of anything is a pretty safe strategy, it tends to cause problems for everyone around you on a regular basis. But you're usually pretty good.

Anyway. It doesn't really matter much.

I am having a strange night. I have had quite a few sober nights lately, and like some type of fairytale full moon curse, this always seems to culminate in a series of very surreal days.

The nice people are all angry. The angry people are all nice.

My job description is "AJ", who was the guy I replaced. The person I trained is now "Steve". Our purchasing manager was recently transferred to receiving, while the shipping lady is on health leave till she can get over the fact that we did not make her sick, and she should die, quit, or simply be nicer and stop taking her myriad myriads of health problems out on us. He is starting to look a little sickly and has been a little bitchy lately. Much to his chagrin, he is now "Debby". Our jobs defining our personalities is an interesting concept, but has apparently worked well for the business.

My friends are all having affairs and falling apart and getting into identical messes. My basement has the potential to fill up with transient pals and co-workers. I plan to invest in Japanese sleeping tubes.

My McDonalds is crawling with bugs. They are not of the same species and none of them seem as though they would be native to lettuce, processed cheese, or all-beef patties. I suspect box contamination. This is supported by the fact that the june bugs in my fries are rarely deep fried and salted to perfection.

A former girlfriend keeps walking into my house, hammered and shoeless, forgetting she has not lived here in a year. I do not sleep as I must stay up to steer her away from the stairs and my bedroom, where my present girlfriend sleeps, and back out on to the street where she may eventually find her way across the lot to her townhouse.

Related, my locks do not seem to function as intended, as virtually everyone in a three mile radius has a key except my roommate, who enjoys staying out till the wee hours of the morning with an east Indian dude who says he is a Korean millionaire from England. He acts as a life coach to my roommate, who arguably can already do a better fake accent.

There are things living in the walls and the vents. They get in through the basement vent on our deck, which is essentially just a hole cut in the wall with a disintegrating screen across it. I have never seen them, and rarely hear them unless I pay close attention. They are skittery, climbing things that remind me of a Lovecraft story I once read. Or perhaps they are the house waiting to collapse on itself. Or perhaps they are synapses in my brain slowly reconnecting as my system clears out.

My roommate is unable to find a job, and the rest of us have been paying for his existence for nearly four months. He quit his last job to go to Saskatchewan with the KorEngDian for three days. As this was the third or fourth time he did this, he was not rehired on his returned. In retrospect, his inability to find work may not be surprising to people other than himself.

I don't really know what to make of life anymore. It is both drab and vibrant, and I do not understand it very well. I am losing my desire to. Trainwrecks, looking away, and all that. I guess.

Oh well. This is fun:



Well, I guess that's about it for now.

Honestly, I've never felt so unwanted in my life. I'm putting this here instead of in a letter because I know you'll just get all defensive and mad and so on, but it really feels like you don't want anything to do with me, and that I'm completely wasting my time here. So I'll put it all in your court. And when I don't hear back from you, then I'll get on with just doing all this for myself, and stop worrying about someone who only seems to want me around to resent me. Seems fair to me.

So here's where it stands. I'm doing ok I suppose. Work is unpleasant occasionally, but good most of the time. I get tired of picking up people's slack, and even more tired of when that results in something being done improperly and me catching shit for simply trying to do something someone else should be doing in the first place. It's a good enough job, but I'd rather get paid less to do something boring in a place where everyone at least respects eachother than work in a place dealing with my interests for a great wage where it's every man for himself. Lisa and I are pretty officially over. She's flipflopped between wanting to be with me and wanting me to fuck off for a long while. A few days back she made it pretty obvious that things were done, so I've decided to fuck off pretty permanently. I bear her no ill will, but I have no desire to be around her anymore. Hope things work out for her. I'm presently dating a wonderful, loving girl who I don't really want to be with. She puts a ton of effort into our relationship, is stupidly in love with me, and has no concept of how to date someone. On one hand, it could be something good, but on the other hand, I just don't want to date right now. I'd really be alot happier just being alone. Besides, big amounts of effort usually imply a depression or some other issue, and I can see that peeking out already. I really don't know what to do about anything involving this stuff right now. It just makes me depressed and emo. So I simply go to work and pretend that things are cool on this front. My van still runs ok. It's kinda falling apart because it's a piece of junk, but it gets me around and I've taken it places no van should ever go. Hell, I've taken it places I'd be scared to get a quad into. Not much else is really new. Life is pretty unexciting and mostly a swirl of vodka and sleep deprivation. It works ok, but leaves me with few interesting stories.

None needed

I don't have a computer anymore. Lost it in the divorice, so to speak. Been sick lately. Sucks. Coughing up blood-filled green shit is not a hobby I enjoy. If this is what dying feels like... well, actually, it's not that bad and I guess it's a good way to go. my chest doesn't even hurt anymore. Most likely, I have torn my esophogus via hard coughing, and that's where the blood comes from. In theory, this could be very dangerous as it could rupture. But that said, I have puked, pissed, and sneezed blood, so a little cough blood in the ol' lung butter is just something to round it all out nicely. And that said too, if it does turn out I'm seriously ill and die in my sleep, I'm really sorry for doing it in this other person's bed. I notice you still read this, so yeah, sorry. Hope your cats don't eat me.

Oh, but I do know you that well.

So fuck off with your justification. Serious, you just piss me off that much more. Yes, sure, I do not know "you" that well. I do not know "you" at all. But knowing how someone will act, and why they will act the way they do are two completely different things. And really, for the most part, it's only the actions that anyone including myself actually give a fuck about. So yeah, give it up already. Just because I'm too polite to point out that you're not incredibly hard to be around doesn't mean that it's not true. The fact that I can be pretty fucking hard to be around doesn't change things. I at least realize and admit it, and know how to fucking shut off and be more pleasant when need be. Christ, life annoys me. I don't think I can really do this much longer.

I'll give you everything I have if you can guess what I've been up to lately. Really. I'd even throw in a comment about how massively impressed I am. The songs in this one don't really flow into eachother too nicely. Oh well. Anyway. Update yer shit. It's been forever.

I haven't had a whole lot to blog about lately, and am a little disenchanted with the internet to be honest.

I'm working at the gun store now. Selling guns is much easier than selling books, because everyone who walks in either

A) Have no idea what they want, and need you to pick a gun for them.

or

B) Knows exactly whay they want and just need you to hand it to them.

Books, on the other hand, do not conform to this nice little way of doing things. Everyone who comes in the bookstore is either

A) Looking for something no bookstore on the planet carries and which is exceedingly hard to get ahold of,

B) Isn't actually planning on buying anything and just want to come scan our books for their Kindle,

or

C) Wants "A blue colored book published sometime in the 80s, and the authors name starts with a letter in the english alphabet, though I don't remember their full name, what the book is called, what it's about, or even what's on the cover besides it being blue, or maybe red".

Of course, there are a few downsides to the gun store (a particular co-worker comes to mind, and it's alot harder of a job occasionally - I never had to run thousands of rifle cases up a long flight of stairs at the bookstore, for example), but my bosses are really nice people, and I'm being paid what can only be called "stupidly well" (let's just say I make more than alot of people who live in camps). So I can't complain too much.

There's not a whole lot else new, really.