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03 october 2000
periodically Yeah, nice picture, I know. I don't look like that, really. As a matter of fact, I look a helluva lot worse. Fact is, I'm jonesin for a smoke and refuse to indulge myself. It's a sweet form of torture indeed, but then I like torturing myself. First I take sex out of my life, now smoking. What's next? I feel like I should apologize, at least to myself, for last night's entry. It was, admittedly, a bit out of control, as was I when I wrote it. I'd like to say I'm better tonight, but I'm not, just different, not better. For on the one hand I feel more relaxed, minus the "i just snarfed seven lines of coke" vibe, yet on the other side I'm more conscious of my loss, rationalizing that which I'm missing, and so on, and so third (and fourth)... Screw that, or you, or me. The truth is, loneliness is intensified ... I feel like shit, I look like shit, all because I feel like quote-unquote bettering myself in the name of taking more care of my lack-of-a-body. Sure, I could shave and shower and dress in expensive clothes and look like friggin' great right now, but what's the point? I'd rather reflect on the outside that which I feel on the inside. Turmoil. Uncertainty. It took so much energy to get out of bed this morning. It's not that I didn't want to live, it's just that I wanted to sleep. Anything not to deal with the desire for a cigarette. And yet I dragged myself awake, and I was only ten minutes late for work, and the boss said I looked like shit, and I said of course, that's because I feel like shit. "YOU fucking quit smoking COLD TURKEY and come into WORK with your SHIT not STINKIN." Impossible. Of course, according to quitsmoking.about.com, I'm supposed to be taking these three days off, treating it like the flu. Heh. Rachel says I'm making too big a deal out of this. If only she knew what a big deal it was. And it is. And it's not my choice. I don't choose to sleep two hours a night. I don't choose hyperactivity. I don't choose an inability to concentrate for more than thirty seconds. I don't choose a predisposition to suck on whatever's nearest, be it a bic pen or my own fingertip. (if only I could reach...) I don't choose a constant fear of failing myself at any minute, even though failing myself, so to speak, would take all the pressure away and just allow me to go back to my life, as it was, such I was complacent with. What I _did_ choose, though, was that first cigarette some fifteen years ago, and the one after that and the one ofter that, and so on and so forth. And I chose some two years ago to return after stopping for six months. I ramble again. This entry is no different than last night's. Concentration is lost. I'm gonna try and read and maybe sleep. I can't remember how long my metabolism will be messed up. Last time I stopped I was so fucked up in so many other ways, losing the butts was hardly a pixel in the portrait, so to speak. I'm saner now, yet just as sole ... 03 october 1999: : on a long hiatus 03 october 1998: : on a brief hiatus 03 october 1997: nonsense : There's a grey noise in my head that I can't quite identify. [ swim back | email me | swim ahead ] |
