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Where does this negativity come from? The self talk. I hate my life. I hate my life. The first thought of the morning, rather than a beautiful homage to the awareness of life... The first thought Good god, today is going to be hard to endure. Why. Is it my diet? It hurts to sit down. I was a stupid and irresponsible child this weekend. I will pay. The execution of ideas. In the sense of completion. Not the murdering of ideas. I'm not a book burning. There is no price to pay for that type of intolerance. I have all of these millions of nice ideas. Most that would make people smile. Strangers. Friends alike. I am alone in this desert with my ideas. That oasis in the distance. Is still in the distance. And I am crawling like a snake through the scorching sand, boiling off my skin layer by layer. Until I am is tendons clinging to my skeleton. everything else melts away and vultures pick at my eyes before they dry up. We could be making people laugh. Gaining exposure for our silly ideas, executed perfectly. Why the negativity, fucker? I don't want to start something because I acknowledge the ways it could not turn out perfect. Jesus. I juggle flaming chainsaws with good intentions but eventually one might slip and slaughter an innocent bystander. I am at a loss. A loss of feeling and sensitivity. Somehow I become a ghost on campus and travel through people not passed them. I travel through lectures and the haze around my head stays until after five in the evening. I have a concert to go to at least, tonight. Attend this concert. Anthony Green and The Dear Hunter and Good Old War. Why wouldn't I? But I do need to practice my scales and my story is hardly an outline even, for a week of work. This writing... Will this help me with my draft of this story? Will this 15 page massacre do me justice? Will this prove I don't belong in the English program also? If so. If it's shit. What do I do... I know I can't be instantly good but given my disadvantage of almost two years twiddling my thumbs in dark classrooms of all topics... I need to latch on whatever my strength is and pick the easiest and most sensical route towards success and happiness and free living in the andes or the bahamas with beautiful women fanning me for wages or for their enjoyment their pleasure. I am a mess. I am a whining child. My life cannot possibly be as bad as it feels some mornings. That voice in my head. The one that says take another shot. The one that reminds me where I am and where I came from. The voice that does not tolerate my failure and let's me know. Oh, wow, dumbass. Nice going there. Nice shooting Tex. But I keep my nails clean. My hair short. Has anything else changed? Hit a low point after that party last Friday. That's for sure. Depraved and wild, rampant. Running through the streets. Shoes are wet. My head is spinning. Good morning. It's nearly 5 am. Crying. Yelling. Falling behind curbs and waiting for someone to stab me. Steal my wallet and all its contents. I would not remember exactly what was in there and I would be double lost. I hate the predicament. The predictability of everyone I've ever met here. The video games the weed the attempts at picking up girls. What's predictable about me other than a constant sense of anxious wandering. The type that kills conversation and I never know what to say. I talk without thinking and I believe that freedom should be shared. I hate being a mute. I hate so many things. Mostly aspects of my character that this desert is highlighting. The bad things in this bright light for all to see and to my dismay and disappointment. I'm turning into a recluse. One who says one thing yet does another. A meat head. Someone who never follows through. No Guitar Center. No comedy shorts. No mountain climbing. No first friday. That's probably why. God was angry watching me behave like an ant and decided to coax me into getting hammered rather than looking at art. "I don't really like art". I hate you too. No GNC. No rap songs. No lead guitar positions. It's all the same and its dreary. I am so unhappy here and I can't help express it. Why? Why? Why? Why am I so depressed and miserable? It is so beautiful outside.
