M: Make it last, mirror in darkness

"I hated you, but now I love you, because it was you who saved me from those birds."

When I was in grade 5, my best friend was Drew. We used to talk on the phone for several hours most nights, or at least when we weren't hanging out. But after a while, we'd be talking for a few hours and then realized we'd said everything, and then, everybody's done this at some point in life, we'd talk about how there was nothing left to talk about. Usually, this saccharinely obvious display of need is reserved for couples, but Drew and I were tight at the time.

I say this because, as you might've guessed by my not having posted since Friday, and not really wanting to write this, I've observed... for the first time in years, it seems I have nothing to say. I don't know. It certainly seems like I'm grasping at straws. What should I talk about?

On the weekend, I did nothing.

I'm still kinda miserable. I'm still jobless and stuck in this town. I'm still lonely as fuck (as Amanda K. observed Thursday night, "You just need to get laid." Well... duh.) I'm still addicted to caffeine. I still have all my same anxieties about the fall, but because of my Sheridan experience I know it'll be fine and by November I'll be saying, "What was I worried about?" at least as far as the actual education part goes. I'm still taunted by that misanthropic anhedonic shih tzu (God I'd better be getting a massive payday for this.) Even my Grandma doesn't want to be in this town. I still watch as all my friends (?) from around here do their best to get out of here, and I'm left, because really, what am I? Why in the name of the fucking holy realm of Mephisto would anybody need to show regard for my existence? I mean, apart from the good folks I've been friends with since Journalism, who actually, you know, miss me and want to know what I've been up to. Thursday felt good but, as is I suspect most of reality, is fleeting. Other than them. Scott will always be around. Always. He's trapped and we don't need to worry about it.

Should I cry for help? Maybe it's just a cry of boredom, but it's getting dangerous. I'm turning into one of those assholes who can't cope with the tedious bores of everyday existence. It's not in my nature to call much attention to myself, and this is admittedly probably part of the problem. Because when I want to see people, I don't know where to begin. I don't know what I need. If I did, I don't think I would be able to get it. I'm not sure I'm making myself clear, because I'm fairly certain nobody's listening (nobody in a position to help anyhow) because maybe, maybe, maybe my melodramatic ramblings have alienated people. Because fuck, I know I wouldn't want to hang around with the mopey son of a bitch who's writing this shit!

Catch-22: I wouldn't be a mopey son of a bitch if I had someone to hang around with. If a frog had pockets, he'd carry a hand gun. Thank you Dan Rather; Kenneth, what is the frequency?

Kenneth, what is the frequency?

Kenneth, what is the frequency?

(Kick, kick, kick.)

Catch me on a good day sometime (if they really exist!) A paranoid manic depressive is not someone you want to ignore. Maybe I'm not that. I'm just trying to cope. I can't even crack this walnut with words.

I'm with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses. I'm with you in Toronto where you type paranoid telegrams from a lonely attic. I'm with you in Windsor where you are madly in love with an older man. I'm with you in Calgary, where you try to hide from everything you brought with you. I'm with you in Windsor, where I don't know what you're thinking. I'm with you in England where you seek elusive higher consciousness. I'm with you in Ottawa where you are reunited with your lover. I'm with you in Massachusetts where you grow, and grow others. I'm with you in Oakville where I am going to be the last living human being. I'm with you in Roma where you pine for home. I'm with you, but you're nowhere.

Keep on rockin?
(is it Scott?)