Journal 0036

What are we talking about?

Let’s just talk about what’s been going on in my life for the past couple days.

Ended up going downtown again last Friday. Had a really good time with my two friends who have the same name. Well more accurately, my one friend and her friend with the same name as them. Was pleasantly drunk as well as other things that night, and overall it was just a good night. We hit up a dive bar called Franks and I spent far too much money (looking back now) on drinks, (of course at the time it seemed like the perfect amount to be spending).

Had an interesting uber driver as well. It was someone who had drove me in the past and recognized me. At least I think I had them in the past, that or it was someone who knew me in real life- which is a sobering thought that I just had… Hopefully not- though to be fair, me going home with two girls does seem like a pretty good looking situation on my end?

Other than that… hung out with my roommates and a few of my mates during the actual weekend. I say that, what I mean is that I spent most of Saturday sleeping, and then I watched the game with them on Sunday, and that leads to today? I sure there were other things that happened before my last journal post but I can’t remember them (as my memory is shit), so who cares?

Ah, there was an interesting moment on Friday!

My friend gave me a CD they had been holding onto that I had bought my ex-partner before we broke up. In my drunken/high haze I broke the piece of shit in two and chucked it. It was oddly- nothing. There wasn’t this satisfaction or even a sadness for wasting money on it. Just- nothing. I’m glad I did it though? I think? I certainly wasn’t going to keep it, and I had already given the band the money for it (which is good, because I like the band). So breaking it was more of- symbolic kind of thing than anything? It just felt right to do- but it just didn’t do anything for me.

I don’t know what I want anymore. That’s a difficult thing to wrap my head around. I’ve always thought that I knew what I wanted. Well that’s not true, I don’t think I’ve ever really known what I want to do with my life, but I thought the small things- like my actions- were things that I knew why I was doing them. That I knew what I wanted when I did things.

I mean- I don’t know what I mean. I’m still tired all the time, that’s something that hasn’t changed. That’s comforting. I guess?

Whatevers. It really doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things anyways. I’m still stuck here doing what I’ve always been doing, trying to figure out what tiny excuse I have for not killing myself. Be it a new game that I want to try, be it my family who I don’t want to hurt, be it the fear of actually killing myself and not knowing what comes afterwards, if just nothing or if there actually is something waiting for those that leave the mortal coil. It’s mostly the game thing though. I’m only alive because of the stories that I haven’t had a chance to experience yet.

I hate living where and when I am. In this world, where the mundane seeps though into everything. I hate it. I wish I didn’t have the will or energy to think about it. I wish that I had bigger concerns than pondering about the uselessness of life. I don’t though- because of my upbringing and because of the privileges that I was born with I will always have the chance to wax poetic about my life and wonder about where I’m from and where I’ve come from. I will always be able to wonder about where I’m going and what choices have taken me there. I will always dread my existence and everything that relates to it.

It’s why I drink and smoke and more. It’s why I read, why I play video games, why I watch TV. It’s because I don’t like reality. My ex-partner used to mention a lot things didn’t feel real to them. That’s something I never understood. It’s something I still don’t understand. I mean- of course it’s real. If it wasn’t real why would I be suffering? There is nothing more real than pain, of any kind. There is nothing that proves to me that I am alive, more than the fact that it hurts to live. It hurts to simply exist. How could that not be real? I mean- what kind of question even is that. Of course this is real- if it wasn’t- what else is there?

I’m a deeply flawed person. Deeply. Doesn’t that make me real?

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