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I wanna get this down before I pass out.

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Oct. 17th, 2007 | 11:16 pm
mood: melancholymelancholy
music: weird fishes/arpeggi

I wanna get this down before I pass out. I have the opportunity to get a good night’s rest and I don’t want to waste it, but I’ve got to get this down.

 

For the last couple of days, I’ve been thinking incessantly about how to go about getting out of this rut. On Tuesday, I spent every free moment I wasn’t doing go-backs or ringing up people to write about it. As Tiffany, the new cashier, said, “whoa… you have a lot to write about.” Yeah, I totally did. I was trying to get to the crux of the problem. I think maybe I keep hoping that the outcome will be different. I think maybe, deep down, I keep hoping it can be somebody else’s fault. My dad’s or my mom’s or Tiffany’s or Tre’s or Dan and Melissa’s or Kayla’s. No matter how I cut it, they are not responsible, but I’m determined. I’m determined to spin it somehow so I’m a victim and not at fault in any way. I even try to say that it’s just the way God made it—can’t figure out the rhymes and reasons of that crazy ol’ God! But it’s me. It’s in me. Very, very, very slowly, I’m realizing this. I have yet to act on it. It always hits me in the evening or early morning when I’m listening to sad/eerie/beautiful music. Maybe I should listen to PJ Harvey and Radiohead all the time just so I can keep this state of mind. No, if I did that, I’d have to kill myself. I never feel lonelier or less significant than when I listen to them. Right now, I’m sitting here in the study, listening to this song and the wind blowing outside, sipping water, and feeling like total shit. I not only feel lonely and insignificant but just wrong and horrible and childish and wretched. Not gonna get off topic here. I was talking about how I’m no victim and that my life and my problems are really my own fault. It’s a very hard thing to deal with. Knowing that the shitty circumstances in which you find yourself is mostly your fault. My brain and body want to reject it. It’s easier that way. But somehow, something in me doesn’t want life to be like this and it gets to me and reminds me that I kinda suck the way I am right now. I have all these dreams, some grandiose and some unexceptional. I wanna live in LA and write for a television show and hang out with Mindy Kaling and Jonah Hill and write and be rich and win Emmys, but sometimes all I want is my own little space, my own little home where I can write and play Wii for hours and listen to Radiohead and cry. I want those lunches with Jonah at little bistros, laughing at inside jokes, being oh-so-cool, but I’d settle for having a small group of writer friends to see occasionally to talk to about books and work and whatnot. I’d settle for having some energy and some brainpower and a little… gumption. I want to blow glass and have my own business and sell handmade pieces to Oprah and Darryl Hannah (where did she come from?) for hundreds of thousands of dollars, but it’d be fine to just do glass blowing as a hobby and give my little lopsided, imperfect vases and ashtrays and glasses to friends and family. I want to sew and knit and cook and wear aprons and steal Dan’s recipe for banana bread so I can make it on Sunday mornings. I just want to be… out there. Does that make any sense at all? Aren’t I already out there?

 

No. I’m so in here that it’s not even funny. I’m terrified of leaving home, of being on my own, of being responsible for myself, of trying to make friends, of trying to keep the friends I have, of being seen, of being heard, of being loved, of being alive. I’m not out there because I’m terrified and lazy. Yes, lazy too. I can be honest because I’m exhausted. This week, I planned on calling Melissa and demanding that she let me in the house so we could watch the UK version The Office and eat Chinese food from Chi Tung and then watch the US The Office and talk about the shows and work and school and dreams. I never did. I probably won’t. Because I hate her? No. I love her. But it’s so much work. Calling and driving and getting gas and putting clothes on. And I’m so tired. Not that tired. But lazy-tired, which makes you feel about 2.5 times more tired than you actually are. I sabotage myself. I don’t call Mrs. Robinson to see about a job. I don’t go to Columbia to see about that one class that I need to get my diploma. I don’t go walk with Tiffany or eat right. Because I don’t want to? No. Because I’m terrified and lazy-tired.

 

But I feel it so keenly. Lately, I’ve been feeling like, “Fuck. What am I doing? When I was the last time I went downtown? Or hung with my friends? Or did anything that didn’t revolve around sitting in front of the computer? Fuck me, I’m lame.” And then now, when I’m tired (genuinely tired) and alone and lonely and listening to Thom Yorke’s voice (which is probably the most melancholy and beautiful voice in the world), I don’t have the strength to be distracted into being happy. I’m not happy. I know what I have to do. I know I have it in me. This resolute… spirit or whatever. This light or fire or whatever in me. I have the potential for greatness. I know it. And I want it. I want someone to read this and be moved and yet, that shitty part of me, that cowardly little bitch wants to hide. I can’t explain it really. I want to be seen and heard and do something, but I also want to hide. But I know I can do something with myself. I have a good heart, a decent mind, a little talent, and a loving spirit. I have the potential to be the Future Me that I want to be. Maybe not LA Jonesy or Bolingbrook Jonesy, but content, thoughtful, loving Jonesy. I’d be pleased as punch to be Content Jonesy, dropping off banana bread to Dan and Melissa’s little gay love nest, talking and laughing with my sister like an equal (finally), reading at Story Week, moving people with my words.  I wish someone could just tell me what to do. Well, I know what I need to do. I just wish someone would make me do it.  

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