I just woke up a few hours ago, after I fell asleep due to the clonazepam that I had ingested this morning. The sky is bright white, and there's a light, shitty drizzle of rain falling from the sky, like God's shaking his dick to get the last few drops out.
I'm entering one of those stages where I really don't feel creative at all. I just sit at my ipad, checking in on bluelight every fifteen minutes or so, spouting out whatever knowledge I can, before I break to smoke a newport. I'm right now laying in a rather effeminate position, kind of like a victorian nude would pose, except I'm wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Out of boredome I drew a hand puppet on my fist, and while I type this, his grotesque face seems to laugh at me.
I feel like I should get up, go over to my desk and do this illustration I've been thinking of, where I'm crucified to a hexagonal cross, being peirced by a giant syringe, and the blood from my wound is being boiled in a huge cooker by a monkey holding a torch.. But I dont know, it seems like a lot of work, and I dont want my mother to come upstairs and see me slaving away on an image like that.
I'm dreading this evening. An old friend of my dad's is coming over who I havn't seen for years, and honestly, I'd be perfectly comfortable with never seeing him again. But before I have to deal with that, I have to pretend to go to an NA meeting to please my mother, which means I will walk around in the rain for miles until the hour is up, and then trot back to my home where I'll have to lie about how inspiring the speaker was, and how I met with my fake sponsor and we had a real good talk. For the average twenty four year old, I've been in a lot of treatment center's, so I've become increasingly skillful when it comes to elaborate fabrications. Sometimes I even hold fake conversations on the phone, with my fake sponsor. In fact, my fake sponsor even has a fake number that I've programed into my cellular, just to make sure I cover all the corners.
None of that really makes me feel to good about myself though, just clever.
I skipped school almost every single day this week, save for one art class, sociology, and Intro to Biology. I only went to those because I had skipped them the week before. I've given up on volleyball, so there will not be any more diaries pertaining to that. It's kind of rediculous, because even though I skip my classes I still go to school. I just sit down on the benches and draw the pretty girls, or I walk around the block in circles, smoking ciggarettes, drinking coffee, giving away my loose change to homeless people. I guess it's just really tiring to try so hard to throw myself into this stuff when it seems everyone else is only trying to coast by. I'm the kind of person that needs a little bit of healthy competition-after all, I'm driven by a gross desire to be noticed.
And now the week is over, and it's Spring Break. I'm not going anywhere, just staying right here in Brooklyn. I don't mind though, wet tee shirt contests and fraternity culture never appealed to me anyway, just another instance of struggling, dripping, sliding forms, fighting to get to the top, swinging their dicks, bouncing their breasts, flexing their bicepts and drowning themselves in a pool of numbed-out shit.
I'll just smoke a ciggarette and wait for the mailman, or play shitty, acoustic covers of GG Allin.
I'm entering one of those stages where I really don't feel creative at all. I just sit at my ipad, checking in on bluelight every fifteen minutes or so, spouting out whatever knowledge I can, before I break to smoke a newport. I'm right now laying in a rather effeminate position, kind of like a victorian nude would pose, except I'm wearing jeans and a flannel shirt. Out of boredome I drew a hand puppet on my fist, and while I type this, his grotesque face seems to laugh at me.
I feel like I should get up, go over to my desk and do this illustration I've been thinking of, where I'm crucified to a hexagonal cross, being peirced by a giant syringe, and the blood from my wound is being boiled in a huge cooker by a monkey holding a torch.. But I dont know, it seems like a lot of work, and I dont want my mother to come upstairs and see me slaving away on an image like that.
I'm dreading this evening. An old friend of my dad's is coming over who I havn't seen for years, and honestly, I'd be perfectly comfortable with never seeing him again. But before I have to deal with that, I have to pretend to go to an NA meeting to please my mother, which means I will walk around in the rain for miles until the hour is up, and then trot back to my home where I'll have to lie about how inspiring the speaker was, and how I met with my fake sponsor and we had a real good talk. For the average twenty four year old, I've been in a lot of treatment center's, so I've become increasingly skillful when it comes to elaborate fabrications. Sometimes I even hold fake conversations on the phone, with my fake sponsor. In fact, my fake sponsor even has a fake number that I've programed into my cellular, just to make sure I cover all the corners.
None of that really makes me feel to good about myself though, just clever.
I skipped school almost every single day this week, save for one art class, sociology, and Intro to Biology. I only went to those because I had skipped them the week before. I've given up on volleyball, so there will not be any more diaries pertaining to that. It's kind of rediculous, because even though I skip my classes I still go to school. I just sit down on the benches and draw the pretty girls, or I walk around the block in circles, smoking ciggarettes, drinking coffee, giving away my loose change to homeless people. I guess it's just really tiring to try so hard to throw myself into this stuff when it seems everyone else is only trying to coast by. I'm the kind of person that needs a little bit of healthy competition-after all, I'm driven by a gross desire to be noticed.
And now the week is over, and it's Spring Break. I'm not going anywhere, just staying right here in Brooklyn. I don't mind though, wet tee shirt contests and fraternity culture never appealed to me anyway, just another instance of struggling, dripping, sliding forms, fighting to get to the top, swinging their dicks, bouncing their breasts, flexing their bicepts and drowning themselves in a pool of numbed-out shit.
I'll just smoke a ciggarette and wait for the mailman, or play shitty, acoustic covers of GG Allin.
