024: The Final Cut

I relent. Every time I think maybe I've written my last SWP post, I feel myself drawn back.

It's been months. Remarkable. Probably healthy. Maybe not: maybe it means I don't think enough of myself, maybe it means I don't care enough about the goings-on in my own life to note them down. It's been an extremely eventful few months. The stress and misadventures related to our recent move could fill several classic posts on their own.

What a fucking process. We were told we were moving, what, last December? Then the journey of getting the house into condition to be sold, keeping it that way long enough, getting faked out a couple times, packing... packing, oh fuck. How traumatic. We completely shat all over the process of packing this year, doing a lot (a LOT) on the day of. A lot of my thoughts are summed up here. The long and short of it is that I was totally unprepared to deal with the amount of shit I've accumulated in the 7 years I lived in that house. I moved in as one person and moved out as another, albeit it's a fairly straight line from A to B. I sort of had to confront a lot of my missed opportunities and broken threads.

Things have settled. I was thinking, before the move, how I might not stay long. This might be the year. Might not. I might be so scarred from the move that I just wanna cocoon. That's not healthy. Maybe the scar tissue is toughened up and I can go as I please. I spoke to Cary a while ago, a little over a week ago. I noted how fucked up it was that I liked where my life is. He said I shouldn't feel bad about that. That's the opposite from what I'd expect from him, who's always going on about his dislike for our town, who's pretty dedicated to bettering himself and furthering his career. Sometimes I get frustrated by the safe little world I've created for myself. It seems to forbid growth. I'm getting isolated and weird and every attempt I ever make to shake up my comfort zone just reminds me why I have a comfort zone.

I originally wrote this blog just to carp about romantic problems. Lack of romantic movement. Basically how I can't seem to talk to anyone about it, can't even string the words together, even on the Tumblr, where I know who'll be reading (and to be fair, they're very comforting and understanding.) I can't put together a coherent narrative about it where I don't feel or seem pathetic. A loser with nobody to love. I'm still 16 goddamned years old.

Then it turned into this whole bigger thing about a lack of movement in my life.

But anyway, I distracted myself long enough. Keep on rockin'
-Scotto