Perfecting loneliness

Things in my life have a tendency to go out with an anti-climactic little fart noise. This is my fault more than anyone else's. Maybe I just don't pay attention enough to my surroundings; maybe I have a tendency to take the better and lighter elements in my life for granted; maybe I'm just not cut out for this "being satisfied" at the moment sort of business. When I can convince myself that I deserve good things once in a while, would it be presumptuous to have you hear from me again? The silence and lack of closure speaks a resounding "yes." I've become too comfortable with stagnation in my life, I wrap it around me like a blanket and hide away from both the monster under my bed and the proverbial skeletons in my closet. One of these days I'm gonna suffocate from wrapping it too tightly.

Translation: Sorry. As in "I'm" and "you don't have to be."

Too drunk to fuck

Well, was.

The streets of Old Town Pas and someone's Skechers are due apologies from last night. Surfer On Acid, my stomach, and low tolerance are sorry a million times over.

Convention of Robert's life # 78: Prolonging having to do anything stressful, only to avoid and build up stress until it engulfs me like a cloud.

I can't concentrate here. It's not just delirium creeping in, as I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD these walls are honing in on me, hoping to smash me flat and lick up the MSG residue in my blood that will flow from my lifeless carcass. The only thing good that's come out of this job is that I get to see my cousins more, I get paid ridiculous wage considering the amount of grunt work I do ("grunt" as in the sound I make as I stretch out on the couch and take 2-hour naps), and each week, I'm met with more and more insight as to just how deep the rabbit-hole goes in my paternal family's fucked-upness. That last one will prove to be beneficial, as I learn eventually to expect less and less out of my dad's side and curtail all potential disappointment.

I have a Milton paper due on Monday, and two more science papers due this week. I went to the Borders at the mall to get a book for my geography class, only to have it completely out of stock. For a second, I stood there, arms akimbo, my mind in a daze as I justified in my head the fact that I no longer needed to write this paper because the book I needed was unavailable.

"At least I tried," I drooled.

What the hell am I doing? After I take a really good dump, finish off my ice tea, and finish watching the Indiana Jones trilogy, I will really start on this paper.

Sugar, we're going down. Suh-winging.

Look on down from the bridge

Strange how my being on blogger has inspired me to write. Maybe it's the recent drama that's been funneling through my life like shit down a toilet. Or maybe it's just this groovy font, or how I get to title my posts. I don't know why I didn't embark on this defection sooner.

Had a talk with my mom on the phone today while still on campus, and as I articulated everything I did in my last post, I started to lose my shit for about 10 straight seconds. It must've been a sight for the soccer camp kids to see a "grown man" (taken as loosely as possible, considering the fact that I have the ruggedness of cotton candy) to be tearing up in front of them. But regardless, this somewhat stunned me. I haven't cried, so much as shed tears in the longest time. I need to stop repressing things. Not so much that I need to start crying more, but maybe that I need to "axe-murderer" more than I am, which is never.

That last post was originally intended to be a posting on how unreliable and indirect people blow, but it somehow denigrated into something far worse. Just thought I'd throw that out. I'm keeping it up for my own sake, so I can hopefully look back on my current state of mind and just breathe a sigh of relief right before the police knock my door down for crimes committed against humanity.

I am the only breathing abacus in my world; I can only count on myself. Unless you're wearing one of those vintage shirts with tons of shit on them, but then you'd eventually find some way to let me down.

The good times are killing me

Summer school sucks a fat left anything. I hate incompetent professors with no sense of timing, who have no business teaching an accelerated course considering that they teach slower than a normal professor during regular academic sessions. I can also do without the pretentious students who attempt to philosophize and wax intellectual on subjects that they have no previous background in, such as ecosystem geography. We'd all like to sound smart, but unfortunately, not all of us attended prick school like you elites did. If I didn't have three papers due and three midterms next week, I'd probably bitch more about you people.

Oh yeah, anyone wanna sublet my apartment for a month? In a bout of awesome timing, my subletters are gonna bail on the room they're subletting at the end of this month. I just found out about this yesterday, so all the feelings that are normally associated to such an event haven't hit me as of yet. But seriously, let me know.

Although I can't wait for summer school end, I'm not looking forward to life at home either. It's great having my grandma around, so there's someone that can actually look after her, but I don't have a room of my own. My parents have been hassling me to no end every week to send in resumes, which is something I don't even want to deal with at the moment. My head is stuck in school mode, something I've articulated to them many times as calmly as I could without using the word "fuck."

"If you don't do it now, then it'll be forever before you hear back from a single employer." Their response.

Yeah? Then how about I just fail out of this quarter and we can play this game for as long as you like. Who needs a fucking college degree anyway, right?

I'm no longer attracted to anyone in my opposite gender. Everyone that I meet I automatically create false histories about that dissuade me from pursuing anything. I haven't called that girl that gave me her number back at the cafe yet, and I don't plan on doing so. There's a lot of things I don't plan on doing at this point, namely getting into a relationship. I don't want to get laid. I don't want all the bullshit bureaucracy and double-standards and Washington double-talk that goes with having to confer with members of the opposite sex that are "more than friends." I hate being fake. I hate pretending that I care about their drama and all their fucked-up quirks that make them unwelcome thieves of air that someone else could be breathing. I hate your fucking music.

I haven't had an erection in over a week and a half. I'd try to, but then that would be paying false tribute to a gender in which 90 percent of its constituents emcompass about 100 percent of everything that's wrong with the world today. My penis is resolute in its flaccidity.

Otherwise, there's nothing new going on. My postings are exactly identical in their themes, only they're worded differently and I concentrate on different feelings at the moment. Nevertheless, everything I write is a summation of every single event and emotion that I've experienced and somehow managed to internalize into something negative. I don't have anyone to talk to, I feel like nobody understands me, and those that I try to talk to just tend to minimalize the whole of my experiences into one arbitrary example of me acting irrational. I don't want your sympathy, I don't want your false promises, I don't want you to talk down on me; I just want someone to fucking listen.

God or someone help me. I feel so fucking alone.

Goodday sunshine

I'm a recent refugee from the wars that are tearing Xanga apart. There's this internal power struggle between the Asians, the teeny-boppers (which encapsulates the Asians, and vice versa), and those pseudo-intellectuals we all love so much.

Not saying that defecting from Xanga will let me avoid that, as blogger has it's share of those kinds of people in droves, but I've been somewhat stigmatized towards Xanga. There's something about it that seems so impersonal, superficial, and choreographed. It's somewhat ironic how the ratio of pictures posted on it is inversely proportional to the actual amount of identity and individuality being displayed. Xanga, like all these other things, are on-line journals first and foremost; ideologically speaking, the person is empowered through the candidness of their words and feelings. And on the flipside, there's a reason myspace has included a blogging option, y'all.

Then again, who's to say I won't be exposed to this on Blogger? I guess only time will tell.

Hi, Blogger. My name's Robert. I can tell that we're going to be friends.