Tuesday, April 30, 2013

I feel like it's harder to talk

Opening up to people has become something fake where we're just talking about how we need to open up but not really opening up. And I don't know if I'm being perceived as totally fucking fake or if I'm being perceived as being... open? Conversations have become too meta, too post-modern or some shit. Like we're talking about the way we talk to people as we're talking instead of just talking about something real. I didn't realize that was what was happening. I don't know if that was what was happening. I can't tell anything any more. It's too much. It's gotten weird. I feel like I've overstepped a boundary. I made a mistake. I made the WRONG sacrifice for no apparent reason except that it felt easy at the time. How do you get yourself to make better choices? I feel like my being inconsiderate of someone else led to me being inconsiderate of myself led to that person being inconsiderate of me. It's a lose-lose-lose situation. It's shit. I feel like shit. I feel like I'm being shit and making other people feel shit which is way worse than just feeling shit yourself. Do we enable each other? Are we enablers? I don't want friendships to end but, and hopefully it's not, but, maybe it's necessary. We'll see how things go. We'll see what else is said. Maybe it's the end. Maybe I fucked up. That's probably okay, I should probably be okay with it.

Monday, February 25, 2013

-- I told someone the other day that I'm an English major and he actually asked if I'm going to be a writer. Not a teacher, a writer. Most every time I tell someone that I'm an English major the first response is "are you going to be a teacher?" And I say no and that I don't think I have that kind of leadership skill. But then when they ask what I want to do I don't usually have the courage to say writer. I don't think I have the skill or I don't want them to think that I think I'm really good at writing, because really who is. But when he assumed that I'd be a writer, I liked that. I wish more people would assume that. But then maybe I don't. Because I never write any more and I don't know if it's something I'll really pursue. What makes someone a writer? I certainly don't have any ideas. Maybe I have nothing that needs to be put on the page. -- Being alone seems like the easy part now. I know I was alone a lot in high school and through most of college, and I always felt like I needed to be around more people, like I was lonely and lacking, but now whenever I'm around people I almost feel like I'm missing out on all my time alone. It's not fair, I just want to be happy and content. -- I don't understand how my life has been taking these turns and it feels really real and like maybe I'm more alive. But it's so hard because I feel tired all the time and like I'm letting people down. It started when I began my current job at a local movie theatre. I always wanted to work there, and I don't know why I thought I did, because nothing about that place has any semblance of my former life, and this was never the life I thought I wanted, as much as it may have been exactly what I needed (or is it killing me and turning me into a horrible person?). -- Too many commas. -- I don't know how I have this much love inside of me. These people and my love for them, it's so alive, it's out of my control. And it's not a romantic love but it makes me want to hug them and tell them how special they are and make them feel important and able to see how much greatness I see inside of them. I don't think it's a feeling that I can ever all the way make known. It's beyond time and certainly beyond words and a page. -- I thought it used to be said that when someone is sad they need to be cheered up. I thought it was something people always said they wanted and was just universally acknowledged as an important thing to do. But, as I continue living, I don't think it's true. I think people who are sad want to be left alone, they want to feel their pain, they just want someone to understand and let them experience their pain. How do you make someone know that you understand without sounding like you're trying to cheer them up or just giving them what they want. Maybe the sad truth is that the sad person cannot be happy, thus, the term.

I

I feel like I'm a different person like I'm changing and I don't know who I might become. I don't know if I'm doing something wrong if I'm making a mistake but I knew I'd have to change eventually. I hate crowds and I hate groups of people but individual people I latch onto and I can't imagine life without those latching moments. Maybe I'm a tease or a bad person. I don't know. It's exhausting always caring what other people think but when I don't it always catches up to me later. Life seems meaningless, I need a drink.

Saturday, July 24, 2010

Hello!

I'm fairly certain that this blog is no longer read by anyone, but I've decided that I want to start posting in it again. I actually changed my title back to what it once was, not really sure why I ever changed it, but I think I like this. And I'm not going to make any commitments this time. No "blog everyday" promises. I'll write in here when I want to and when I feel like it. I used to search for a community on the internet, where I could interact and talk to many different people from different cultures and backgrounds, but I never found it. And really, I'm not sure if I want to anymore. People are people. And they'll always make things more complicated. So for now, I'm just fine being me, alone, independent, a little confused and maybe not really making sense.

Monday, February 15, 2010

how have i been?

well thank you for asking.
you may be asking yourself, "who is this guy, and why am i following him?"
well maybe i can help you with some of that.
my names drew (you knew that).
i'm 20 yrs old.
i live in sacramento.
i don't much care for sacramento,
mostly because i live at home,
with my parents,
and two sisters,
and dog. aw, dingo.
i go to community college.
i'm an english major.
i don't much care for english.
art is really where my heart lies, i think,
but i'm so close to getting my aa,
i might as well just go for that first..
i'm not very dedicated.
i don't know what i want to do,
or what i want to be.
don't remember why i'm writing this..
my favorite color is blue.
my favorite animal, the elephant.
i'm an overly sensitive person
and sometimes i care too much about people.
other times, not at all.
i enjoy music. listening to it.
i'm a loser,
and a loner.
i want to have a voice,
but i think i'm invisible most the time.
i don't know what i'm saying anymore,
goodnight.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

The Perks of BeOH HELL NO!!!

A couple of weeks ago my friend lent me a book entitled "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". Now I had heard a few things about this book and it sounded interesting. I've had the book for two weeks now, and i just finished the first part. But here is my impression thus far. THIS BOOK SUCKS! This "Charlie" character has no personality whatsoever. His emotions are limited to liking or not liking things. His absence of emotion is frustrating when he makes statements like "I guess I also forgot to tell you how often I [masturbate] now, which is a lot." The author seems to be trying to absorb the audience by showing "touchy" subjects. Masturbation. Rape. Drugs. Homosexuality. Oh no!! I think I may just be shocked into interest. Or not.. Also, the characters say that he is a wallflower, which apparently means that he sees things, doesn't say anything about them, and understands them. I beg to differ. He may see things and know what they are initially, but he does not understand the emotion behind them. He also doesn't seem aware of what's really happening. He has a black and white understanding of what is right and wrong and doesn't seem to have any idea of what's been going on in the world around him. Did I miss the part where his space-ship landed?

But I apologize. I have not finished the book and therefore do not know where the author is going with this. Perhaps this character will be confronted with all of these things over the course of the book. But it really doesn't seem like that's going to happen. My expectations: Charlie does some more drugs, meets a girl and loses his virginity, there's a pregnancy scare and someone, possibly the gay character, gets an STD. Charlie will realize that he is straying from the person he wants to be and have a change of heart and leave this cruel uncaring world in the dust.

I really hope this book doesn't live up to my expectations. I'm hoping that as the book progresses, Charlie, along with his writing ability, matures.

But mostly this is looking like a long and non-amusing episode of "Strangers With Candy". Now that's something that might interest me. "the Perks of Being a 48yr-old High School Freshman". Get on that please Amy Sedaris.

Sunday, July 19, 2009

strange things are happening to me

my heart is an apple

as i walk to the car i realize that i’m living a dream. life is going in slow motion. i can’t even tell what is going on around me, and we’re walking to the car. “i can’t drive”, i say, “i don’t think this is really happening.”

much laughter ensues and i am scared beyond belief. I know that laughter is the natural response but i can’t help but be pissed off. that while i’m sitting here, unable to function beyond the blink of an eye, they’re laughing their asses off.

things start to take strange shape. the street lights become the eyes of the houses as they grow in size and join in the laughter. i can’t help but think of the film “monster house” and wonder how i never realized it was based on a true story.

i start to think i’m going to die. i can’t handle the world around me. my back burns uncontrollably and i wonder, “is this what it’s like to be insane?” and “if this is whats going on in the minds of homeless men and women, i now have nothing but sympathy for them”.

and then i realize, if i die, the world will be ok. death starts to seem like a viable option, and perhaps the best. because what have i accomplised? really? and what will i accomplish if i continue to live? not much probably. i see myself as a statistic. i realize that i am only everyone else around me and the world does not require my existence.

food arrives. it is then that i realize i cannot move my arms. one movement seems to take years and it takes all of my concentration just to keep my arm from falling to the seat beside me. i am given an apple. i hear the words “you’re not going to want to eat but it’ll make you feel better”. i hear them, and i believe them. i take a bite of the apple and it turns to ash in my mouth. chewing. chewing. chewing. and why is the food still in my mouth? i remember, swallowing, it’s a part of eating, perhaps the most important part.

every so often i am overcome with fear. the fear that this is what the rest of my life is going to be like. i’ll be placed in a mental institution if i’m not dead or arrested first. the burning on my back will never stop and i’ll eventually find the strength to scream in agony and curse the heavens for my down-falls.

i can hear people talking around me and if they ask me a question i can give a short answer. if my mind focuses on the subject for too long, however, i forget how to breath and start to hyperventilate again. “should we call alana”, i hear, “yes”, i reply with the nod of a head.

there are times when i can acknowledge the fact that there is more than one thing in front of me. i am back in reality and i use these times to pray that i won’t lose touch with it again. it seems bizarre to me that life is made up of so many things and that we are able to be conscious of them all at once.

when i look down the street there are two options for what i will see. what i’m sure is the reality is that we are in a residential area. the street extends and there are houses untill the street curves and you can no longer see what lies beyond that. the other possibity is that i will see a dead-end. every once in a while this becomes the fact of what is in front of me, but then it fades again.

at some point i swear there are children playing in the streets. i wonder what kind of a parent lets their kids play in the street at 1 in the morning. or at least somewhere close to this time. and i wonder if the other people in the car are aware of their presence. they don’t seem to be, but i can only see everyone else out of the corner of my eye and find it hard to notice their presence for too long.

there is more to the night but mostly, everything repeats itself. it happens so much that i wouldve thought many hours had gone by. but time seems to be at a stand-still. nothing is real and i fear that nothing will ever be the same. i'll live in this world of horror and impossibility while everyone else just lives their life.