I've been testing a new method for getting my roommate out of the house, and it seems to be working: I turn on the radio when I wake up. We both win: he gets the fuck out of my hair, and he also gets to work on time. Too bad I'm absolutely useless in the house during the daytime. I need a day-only job.
I haven't got anything interesting to say to anyone anymore. My computer needs to be overhauled.
I'm fucking boring.
Anger + Red Bull = internet diary.
SPOILERS! (Click to view)You grow up in a culture telling you you can be anything you want, if you try. So you try, you do things that don't harm anyone, but make you happy, and you're told you can't do that, it's bad or wrong or you're spoiling your looks or it's impossible or whatever the excuse is this time, and eventually you realise that what they really meant was that you can have your Model T in any color you like, so long as it's black. Which is a very sour, very bitter way of looking at things, and not really true, but it's so frustrating to try to go against that thought because you're always broke and lonely and everyone thinks you're a crazy asshole otherwise. And somewhere along the way, somehow, absolute terror of being that crazy asshole was put into me. And I wish I knew who to blame for that, so I could choke the bitch.
It's other people's fears and insecurities which bred my own, and I know this, quite rationally, but it's so hard to shake. I think I'd be more successful quitting smoking sometimes.
I'm so angry at myself. I'm so fucking lonely, too. Mostly, I'm fucking scared. I want to be who I know I am, somewhere, not entirely lost, inside of me. It makes me so angry to know there's a better me that can't get out. It makes me want to resent other people who can and have gotten past that fear; not entirely, but yeah, it's there, you fucking successful people. (And please note that I measure success by how content with their life a person is, how motivated they continue to be and how much time they get to spend doing things they love. Money is not necessarily a factor, though it is a necessary evil in many cases.)
All of this makes me believe at times that I'm rubbish, that I'm weak, and that I deserve this rut for not doing more about it. I know plenty of people would agree with that opinion, and write me off. It's caring about them that makes me feel this way. Does that fit the definition of irony? Fuck you, irony. You're a boil on my heart, so far as I'm concerned.
I don't want to tell you what I want to be doing, I want to be doing it.
Fuck, kath. Fucking fuck.
ANYWAY. If you look at the liner notes for most shai hulud discs the backing vocals are done by the 'fremen warriors.' Thought you might like that.