2:00 AM: Keep yer secrets between the shadows

So, the whole upstairs smells like burned bok choy. I mean, I didn't know what the smell was or even what bok choy was; I had to ask. Whatever it is (something related to a brussel sprout, apparently,) it's nasty.

Don't mistake this somewhat off-beat random intro for an upbeat mood on my part. I just never like to miss a chance to point out when the guy upstairs overcooks his food and stinks the joint up (which is often) and rag on him for it. Of course, since the place generally smells like dogshit and febreze lately (exaggeration) maybe it's moot.

So let's get down to it; not my best side tonight. I invite consideration of the back button. No, you'd never click back even if I suggest it. You're here for the long-haul, and that's admirable if slightly misguided. So here we go. (*Oh, and there will be profanity.)

I kinda hate myself lately. I mean, it ain't all my fault; I'm in a shitty situation but I think a more normal person would be dealing with it better, not taking it so hard. Despite Manda's assurances, I really don't think I'm such a normal person. I lead a normal life and have normal problems, but what goes on in my head is pretty far-removed from the standard in-head goings-on of your average johnny-on-the-street.

The fact that I typed that sentence and didn't think twice about it should indicate that. Me and my fucking hyphens.

So where to begin? It's hard to even slice into even though it's a pretty cut-and-dried issue. I feel like an asshole for not much of a good reason, like a whiny little bitch who can't make shit go his way. I have to get out of this fucking town that's for damn sure. I keep thinking about this one person I'm mad at. I won't tell this person to their face that I'm mad at them. I don't even think I'd feel mad if I were talking to the person. I just keep thinking about shit and getting hot under the collar. And that's what I hate. I'm irrational, I know it, I won't stop it, and it kicks the shit out of me. My only real problem is myself, I suppose. I can't peacefully co-exist with others, need attention, need things my way, can't get out of my own head. I shouldn't be left to my own thoughts (which I think is the reason I continue to write in this bad boy several times a week despite it long since having become passe.) But it's all just sound and fury signifying nothing. I get hot under the collar during the day but thinking back on it I shake my head "What a petty kid am I." Maybe it's lack of sleep.

I think I jinxed myself in sleep. For no good goddamn reason I thought I had to go to sleep at midnight last night. I haven't been to bed at midnight since I was getting up at 6:30 to work. However, I hadn't had any caffeine in several hours and thought maybe I could try being reasonable about sleep for once, on chemical basis anyway. I mean, I was hardly wired, kinda drowsy, had nothing to do. Early to bed and all that shit. I mean, I've been getting sick to shit of this same ole routine. Stay up til after midnight while Eric watches the Food Network and I write here or sit and think about how I used to do creative things under the same circumstances.

So I decided to turn in early last night. Meanwhile, earlier I had seen a brief news report on how having lights (ie night lights, electronic displays etc) in the bedroom can affect sleep. I've never had much of a problem, and have for years used TV/DVDs as a way to focus my ever-chattering brain and let it settle (TV shows on DVD are generally best for this.) But for whatever reason I just wasn't falling asleep, and spent about 3 hours tossing and turning anxiously for no good reason, mind flying all over paranoid angsty thoughts like the crazy person I pretend not to be. I fell asleep probably sometime after 3 but it wasn't a deep sleep and was interrupted several times throughout the night until I finally got up after 9 and resolved to get a Tim Hortons breakfast sandwich.

It's been a pretty brutal few days; I found out that while my efforts last week for school were necessary I'm still unable to register until my request for a Subject POST goes through. I submitted it weeks ago, still pending. Goddamnit. I have no idea who I'm supposed to contact this time but I'm making a list.

It comes down to a problem that has bitten me in the ass more times this year than I care to admit: hesitation. I'm just not on top of shit, period, and it fucks me over. I don't learn. School, jobs, women, all of these are areas that have suffered due to my lack of motivation.

Therefore, I might not even have a school to go to in September because of this.

I lamented this to CB earlier today. In frustration with the dismal state of my affairs I took to biking. These days it seems like the only thing I can take control of is which way my bike steers, so it's my haven. I wound up in his neck of the woods and when I admitted, not even putting up the pretense of sanity, I was breaking down, he suggested we get a drink right that moment. It was the first sensible suggestion I'd heard in weeks.

CB is a dependable guy. We sat in his favourite tavern and shot the shit a while. When we got our drinks, he mused, "You can't just get a beer like a normal guy? Gotta get the G&T?" I could think of about a half dozen or so reasons why I ordered the Gin & Tonic, among them, it's lighter and good for summer, I was in the mood for liquor, cheaper than my brand of beer, I don't have any at home, probably a few more (including, let's not forget, my questionable status of "normal.") We shrugged, said a cheers, and began talking about nothing in particular, and how the man was screwing us over in general. He pointed me in the direction of "Overheard at Western (.blogspot.com)" and I steered him toward Cracked.Com. It was a necessary visit. We resolved for Risk this weekend, and hopefully every weekend for the remainder of the month. Oh how time escapes.

It's been a ridiculous summer. Limited potential, even then it was squandered. What a fuckup I am. May as well acknowledge it and try - I'm fuckin' trying - to fix myself. Ain't easy, though.

Cary meanwhile, messaged me out of the blue to respond to a recent remark I made about Weezer. He theorized that their earlier stuff had teeth, and their later stuff just couldn't live up to that. I would say that's a fair assessment. It did lead me to wonder what happened to de-tooth Rivers Cuomo's music. It must've been the negative reaction to Pinkerton. He put himself out there, exposed these raw nerves, and got burned for it. So even though, in the years since, public opinion (and more importantly, mine,) regards Pinkerton as a pinnacle of rock albums in the 90's (possibly even better than the much-vaunted Nevermind and 10, but that's up for debate) in recalling that initial backlash, Cumo has to work to distance, or barricade himself from accessing the part of him that wrote those songs. So we have similarly-themed, clever and whimsical but more disposable and less emotionally resonant tunes like "Beverly Hills," "Perfect Situation" and "Keep Fishin" and various others. Enjoyable for their pop qualities but less likely to strike the listener as being particularly expressive.

Maybe. I certainly know what a few rough experiences can do for your enthusiasm about something, even when that something could help you.

On that, I think I'll leave. I hope I've given myself peace of mind for now, I won't know until I wake up tomorrow morning having slept well the night through. Of course, it's 1:28 now so I can't go to bed for another hour, maybe 90 minutes.

I hope you're thinking about me, thinking about the ones you love, thinking about their feelings and their needs. There are really important things out there and I can't always be among them for everyone out there. It's nice to be read, to be considered, to be contacted, made known that I'm not alone and not discarded. I let those kinds of thoughts creep up on me far too easy. A lot of the time, I'm a wreck. I'm just too good at hiding it, since I'm only a wreck in private. Unfortunately, I've got a lot of private time lately.

Hurm.

Keep on rockin'
-Scott