Meglomanical Musings
2001-07-04 04:26:26 (UTC)

July 2

It's 3 in the morning, and I feel like shit.
Tonight was hardly successful in my eyes, I didn't get much
done, because it seems that anywhere I go, other people
feel that they have to be right next to me. I guess I
should be happy about that, but I find it hard to write
like I want to with so many eyes peering around.
Then I get home at one am, and although the house
is empty, it's not like I can make a cup of coffee or enjoy
a beer. There also isn't too much in the house. Not to
mention that I just killed a cockroach as long as my
pinkie. I'm miserable.
I also did something wierd, I took the hair off of
my chest and stomach. It'll grow back in a month, but I had
to see. I have all this hair in the way, and it's
disguising the fat that is starting to mount on my
midsection. I have love handles from hell, and a beer gut.
I don't even get to drink beer, and I have a beer gut,
imagine that.
Wondering if this is yet the beginning of another
depression. I seem to have a lot of those lately. Not
knowing if I will ever have the solitude to get my work
done, pissed off because I go blank in those moments when I
have both the time and opportunity. I also would like to
work out very much and get rid of all this crap. Starving
myself would never take care of it, becase I barely eat
now. Dinner was a bag of popcorn, again, and my head aches
from a lack of proper nutrition. At this point, I'd like to
just have a can of soup, but I not only can't trust
anything to cook it in, I can't trust anything to eat it
in, either. And these fucking bugs keep crawling on me!
Damn those little fuckers!
I have all of these marks on my shoulders that I
thought were zits, but now I'm beginning to discover the
truth... they are spider bites. I'm almost in the mode
where I'd like to shave off all my hair again, but even
though the bald look is in, I'd miss it tomorrow. It just
keeps itching me, no matter how good care I take of it.
I have to get out of here. I have to find a hotel.
I am going mad, pure and simple. I hate this place, I hate
being here, and although I have a lovely jazz CD on, which
makes me feel better, I am as tired as I can possibly be,
but can't sleep. I need money, I need to eat, I need to be
free so I can take care of my own self and survive, but it
all seems so bleak, so many hands to serve to when the
check comes in, all but mine. So many mouths to feed, but
not mine. And I just smile and reassure everyone and give
them what they want, and just quietly suffer, because they
truly don't seem to give one solitary fuck as long as they
get theirs.
And my lady got fucked over on her birthday. I was
hoping she would have one day for herself, everything taken
care of, just to be able to be free and relax, but no, that
went out the window, too. I'm not happy about that at all.
I know what it is like, to be trapped in a cycle of
mindless shit and daily necessity.
I get to escape that for little while as I write,
when I really write. I get to feel what my characters feel,
I get to watch them do the things they do, I live
vicariously through them. That may be one of the great
mysteries of writing, possibly what many of the masters use
to propel them to greatness. I can imagine Dostoyevsky
shacked up in a low rent shithole, maybe the same bugs,
same lack of food, same tenseness and absentmindedness as
he scrawled out Anna Karenina or Crime and Punishment. Why
is it we must suffer for our work? Why do so many of us end
up broke and penniless, only to give an unforgiving,
uncaring world seeds to their own survival? It almost
doesn't seem fair. But hell, I guess life in general isn't
I understand what it is that makes a father
sacrifice so much for his children. I'd rather it be me
that suffers, with the mindless and ignorant finding fault
for no good reason at all, as if their feeble minds could
truly grasp anything of any real importance.
They can run their mouths all they want to. I have
to figure this out, and get rid of this gut. It's ugly, and
I am not an ugly person. I feel like I am getting teats,
and that is disgusting. I don't look fat with clothes on,
at least, but without, it's sick.
The world will never understand me, and that is
perfectly OK by me. I guess God made me odd and strange for
a reason, maybe it's the insanity of genious, who knows?
Ten years from now, no one will remember that I love the
middle tracks of this very CD I am listening to, or that I
have been through four tapes of Miles Davis' Tutu in my
life. Hell, I might not even remember that.
That Buddah roll I have going on has got to go. And
on yet another subject, I worry about the cats. I miss
them, hate that I can't have them with me, and yet I know
they are living in a safe place for the moment, and will be
in very good condition when I prepare to take them back to
California. Fuck this place. I'm leaving.