Hit with Rock Repeatedly
2/18/2010 1:22 PM – 1:42 PM
Is it a matter of stochastic probability or subconscious impulse? I’ve been thinking about it and all the girls that I have been genuinely attracted to have come prepackaged with live-in boyfriends. I know randomness and I’d put the weight in its corner. But I’m not ruling out the other.
I just finished lifting and had my first meal of the day. I’m jittery and typing faster than I normally would. I spent nine miserable hours at work last night and now I’m set for another eight or nine in a half hour. This is aggravating. I’m paying my student loans and it’s taking a chunk of my paycheck. Now I’m paying for medical insurance and it’s taking a bigger chunk. I have to pay another student loan back to Houghton itself that I haven’t paid anything towards in eight years. It just keeps getting bigger. If I want to be able to go back to college, I have to have a better job. If I want to get a better job, I have to go back to college. Fucking dilemmas. At least the Pixies just came on Pandora. I’ll thumbs up this track when I finish this little bit of writing. There has to be a way out of this. I don’t want to be thinking about this for the next nine hours.
Fuck bunnies. I’m getting old. I keep telling myself that you’re never too old to start over, but it’s different. Lord, I want to hit something. That’s just the testosterone and sudden influx of sugar talking, but still, here I am, fucking caught and not sure how to proceed. Oh. Another angry post. At least it’s not mopy. Well, it’s not mopy as I’m writing. Mopy has a soft, pliable quality. I just want to hit something. If my luck had been excellent, I would be in my cottage by now. If my luck had been better, maybe I would have forgotten about that dream. Maybe I would have never had it. Maybe I’d be taking pictures of the little fishies around the Great Barrier Reef right now, praising Jesus and bemoaning the destruction of the environment. I end up with self-loathing honesty instead. A dishwasher in an upstate New York college town. Fuck. If I knew how the fuck to sell out, I’d do it. Some nice, boring, speaking-in-tongues girl that mom would like. Some collar and tie office job where I get home at a real time of day and can pay for a goddamn car and mortgage. Bible studies on Wednesday, Sunday school every Sunday from 9 to 10. No swears. No beer. No smart books. No honest movies. Brain-dead and happy. Just drop the fucking bomb down the mine shaft and hit with rock repeatedly.
Is it a matter of stochastic probability or subconscious impulse? I’ve been thinking about it and all the girls that I have been genuinely attracted to have come prepackaged with live-in boyfriends. I know randomness and I’d put the weight in its corner. But I’m not ruling out the other.
I just finished lifting and had my first meal of the day. I’m jittery and typing faster than I normally would. I spent nine miserable hours at work last night and now I’m set for another eight or nine in a half hour. This is aggravating. I’m paying my student loans and it’s taking a chunk of my paycheck. Now I’m paying for medical insurance and it’s taking a bigger chunk. I have to pay another student loan back to Houghton itself that I haven’t paid anything towards in eight years. It just keeps getting bigger. If I want to be able to go back to college, I have to have a better job. If I want to get a better job, I have to go back to college. Fucking dilemmas. At least the Pixies just came on Pandora. I’ll thumbs up this track when I finish this little bit of writing. There has to be a way out of this. I don’t want to be thinking about this for the next nine hours.
Fuck bunnies. I’m getting old. I keep telling myself that you’re never too old to start over, but it’s different. Lord, I want to hit something. That’s just the testosterone and sudden influx of sugar talking, but still, here I am, fucking caught and not sure how to proceed. Oh. Another angry post. At least it’s not mopy. Well, it’s not mopy as I’m writing. Mopy has a soft, pliable quality. I just want to hit something. If my luck had been excellent, I would be in my cottage by now. If my luck had been better, maybe I would have forgotten about that dream. Maybe I would have never had it. Maybe I’d be taking pictures of the little fishies around the Great Barrier Reef right now, praising Jesus and bemoaning the destruction of the environment. I end up with self-loathing honesty instead. A dishwasher in an upstate New York college town. Fuck. If I knew how the fuck to sell out, I’d do it. Some nice, boring, speaking-in-tongues girl that mom would like. Some collar and tie office job where I get home at a real time of day and can pay for a goddamn car and mortgage. Bible studies on Wednesday, Sunday school every Sunday from 9 to 10. No swears. No beer. No smart books. No honest movies. Brain-dead and happy. Just drop the fucking bomb down the mine shaft and hit with rock repeatedly.
posted by Spike at 10:45 AM
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