Wednesday, June 23, 2004
It's been a shitty day. I'm awfully depressed. I'm wavering between going into the yard and pulling weeds, working on the stupid fucking landscaping, or just going upstairs and going to bed. I keep remembering, an aural memory of someone saying to someone else, "if you're depressed, keep moving, keep going, keep active." So, I'm leaning towards working on the fucking yard.
I had a terrible class today, or, at least, I perceived it as such. Why do I give such a big shit? I keep asking myself that: why do you care so much? I aint got an answer. I have stupidly high ideals and expectations. Makes me depressed.
I also got a rejection letter from River Styx, a literary journal. I sent them an essay I had written. I kind of figured I was a shoe-in because, in my opinion, it's a damn good essay (I guess not), and the submission guidelines made some comment about the dearth of essay submissions. I knew when I saw the SASE in my box, it was a rejection, just because of the kind of day it's been, and how I'm feeling.
Shit don't come easy. I guess I have to learn that. Really, if I think about my life, shit has always come pretty easy for me. No worries man. I never realized shit came easy for me until the last year or so, maybe 3 or so, when shit really hasn't come easy at all. Now, I have a reference point, and, before, shit came easy.
I used to look at some of my friends, like Greg Bernard, and think, "Wow, shit comes so easy for him." So, I guess in this world, there are people for whom shit comes really, really easy; for me, it's just been easy, that is, until recently.
Goddamn witch on my back. Witch behind me. Witch on top of me. This witch whispers in my ear. Sometimes, she tweaks it. Sometimes it hurts. Lately, she's been hurting me a hell of a lot.
I'm leaning more and more towards just heading upstairs. Sleep is like novocaine; it's easy. It's painless. Sure, there's some guilt for not being more productive, but that's minor. I always think: "When I wake up, the world will look better." It never does. It looks the same. Sleep is weak novocaine, a weak escape, but at least there is that escape.
I had a terrible class today, or, at least, I perceived it as such. Why do I give such a big shit? I keep asking myself that: why do you care so much? I aint got an answer. I have stupidly high ideals and expectations. Makes me depressed.
I also got a rejection letter from River Styx, a literary journal. I sent them an essay I had written. I kind of figured I was a shoe-in because, in my opinion, it's a damn good essay (I guess not), and the submission guidelines made some comment about the dearth of essay submissions. I knew when I saw the SASE in my box, it was a rejection, just because of the kind of day it's been, and how I'm feeling.
Shit don't come easy. I guess I have to learn that. Really, if I think about my life, shit has always come pretty easy for me. No worries man. I never realized shit came easy for me until the last year or so, maybe 3 or so, when shit really hasn't come easy at all. Now, I have a reference point, and, before, shit came easy.
I used to look at some of my friends, like Greg Bernard, and think, "Wow, shit comes so easy for him." So, I guess in this world, there are people for whom shit comes really, really easy; for me, it's just been easy, that is, until recently.
Goddamn witch on my back. Witch behind me. Witch on top of me. This witch whispers in my ear. Sometimes, she tweaks it. Sometimes it hurts. Lately, she's been hurting me a hell of a lot.
I'm leaning more and more towards just heading upstairs. Sleep is like novocaine; it's easy. It's painless. Sure, there's some guilt for not being more productive, but that's minor. I always think: "When I wake up, the world will look better." It never does. It looks the same. Sleep is weak novocaine, a weak escape, but at least there is that escape.
