You Smell Like the Internet

My dinner of vodka and potato chips is best explained by the following: the agency failed to provide a sufficient spread at the hotel. 

Maybe tonight is the night I learned that not only do covert agencies offer a lousy snack bar, I am not the one to engage in clandestine activity. San Jose State is an option...but a tough one to be successful in. 

Actually, I look forward to the challenge; continuing the mode of my current lifestyle will either lead to insanity or the complete unwillingness to live. Maybe both. I look forward to making better decisions. Starting tonight. I bought the good vodka...it is in a glass bottle tonight. and will be in another, softer, yet harder container as the evening goes on. 

Hunting

“I quit smoking one month ago,” I would be writing had I actually not smoked in the past month. Maybe next month with a bit more willpower and less submission to temptation it will be a reality.

I’ve begun my infamous idle-cycle. Instead of books there is television, poetry revision is replaced with cigarettes and job searching has merely become an exercise in focusing on what a terrible person I am. Ideally, I want to be good to myself and live life in accordance with my priorities.

I must be honest about what joblessness does to my self-concept: makes it ugly. I’d like to have some fun. Fun saves all. Must allow and savor fun—but not as a guest at the lustful, gluttonous and drunk  party that has become my life of late. Moderation is key. In all of this. 

Flints

I realized that in adolescence my depression emanated from the fact that I was not who I wanted to be. Later, it was because of boys not liking me back. Now it’s both.

I might not be cut out for dating. That’s why I decided to be single for a while. I’m not a fun girlfriend. I don’t like myself as someone’s girlfriend. I like Farrah though. That’s what I need to reassess. 

Dumbo’s Feather

I have quit drinking during the week, and last weekend I drank like a normal person. 

I am a slave to my desires and ignore intelligent forces within. 

Basically, I can do this. This antabuse which is supposed to make me violently ill should it mix with any alcohol in my body doesn't work. This doesn't matter anyway; I never needed Dumbo’s feather. It’s within me. 

Note: this went on to become a major bout of alcoholism

Eating Steak Tartare

Fatigue arises viciously when one assumes the role of both clown and companion. It all feels so forced. This feels so forced. And mother. The one who can deliver such elation and, to the same degree, knock me the fuck down. I feel her in my blood, and often want to affix a leech to my thigh to suck her out. She’s like art: makes me sad while suggesting the sublime. 

She…and my friends make me want to run and run and run away. But, I can’t allow people too much power over me or my actions. I am fit to make my own decisions even if the portrait of my invincibility, humor, and beauty, keeps me suspended in the gallery of everyone’s minds. 

Lady Macbeth's Hands

My, but I am amazing. With mother gone (again), and poems to be written (again) and boy yet to call (again) I pick up some vodka and The Great Gatsby in order to drown these worries in old friends. NOT Fitzgerald, but his creation. Words of another. Someone else’s. Anyone’s but mine. 

Imps

The apple of my friend’s eye has taken a liking to my forbidden fruit. I know not what evil or good may arise upon the unveiling of this knowledge.

Edenic metaphors aside, the femme fatale chapter of my life has begun; when competition spins throughout the dynamic of me and friend. 

I begin embracing Byronic[?] notions of that individual moral code…the one I am to abide no matter what. The one suggesting some fucking universal truth I never agreed to. 

Perhaps this is adulthood.  Farewell, nymph of my loins.