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2018-04-28 16:34:13 (UTC)

might as well

"Beast Monster Thing (Love is not Love Enough)" by Car Seat Headrest [god these fucking lyrics.... are so good]

and any remaining interest my friends have in me
is just “hey, hey, this animal can talk!”
so all your friends are leaving town
you're hiding out in your parents' house
they wonder why you never go to church
hard to explain why it doesn't work
cause you're not living in sin well
but you're not living in health well
and you're a danger to yourself well
and to pedestrians
I co-write my songs with myself
he feels the feelings I write the words
I co-write my songs with myself
he feels the feelings I write the words
he writes down his feelings
I say “what are you doing?”
so I sleep in my old loft bed
and search for hope inside my head
but even in my dreams
I know the difference between
what I want and what I got
cause what I got is: mumble mumble how are you doing? Why’s the door locked? I’ll be out in a minute second, ooh these are good lyrics, I should charge a dollar per thought
and what I want...
fun while it lasted but it didn’t last
It was fun while it lasted but it didn’t

April 28, 2018 Saturday 4:38 PM

Here is the induced question: why can't it just be enough? That is my question when I think about drinking and smoking and being sober. The thing is, to think about getting drunk, I think why? And then my next thought is why not? What else is there to do in the night, when I am kind of tired and indisputably alone? Haha. So the reasoning is "might as well."

Yesterday I got drunk on a mixture of champagne, rum, wine, and vodka. We started drinking the champagne, which Eli got me for my birthday, around 3:30 PM. He kept talking about how expensive it was and apparently it was from the actual champagne region from France. That kind of fancy gift makes me distrust Eli. Just kidding, I already distrust him, but hey! Free alcohol!

I feel somehow that consciously doing a bad thing is better than doing it unconsciously. Like, if I think to myself: I am going to maintain a friendly proximity to Eli solely because of his access to alcohol. And then I think to myself, yeah, that's pretty mean and selfish. But beyond realizing the moral error I don't really care and I find this interesting.

Anyway, yeah, we drank this champagne. Then Eli broke out the pineapple coconut rum he got from Hawaii, which we drank up up up. And finally I drank a bit of rosé. Not sure how much, but I was definitely drunk by the time I went to Karina's room to celebrate Sophie's birthday. Have I even mentioned Sophie? Ah, whatever, she is pure and good and nice, and her nineteenth birthday was yesterday. That's all ya need to know.

Just realized: I am now the age my sister was when I first began this diary five and a half years ago. Oh, that makes sense. We are five and a half years apart in age, haha.

I ate half an edible (25 mg) with Nadiya yesterday. I am not sure what my thought process was here. We'd decided days ago that we were going to do it, and I said yes even though I really don't enjoy being high. While high, I told Nadiya it was because I wanted her to have someone to get high with. So yes, I do think that was the reasoning. I see myself as an overall selfish person, but this was not a totally selfish act. I just wish I hadn't told her—while high—that I hate being high, because now she might feel bad for letting me take an edible in the first place.

We went to Spring Weekend concert, which I barely remember. My sense of time was all fucked. I kept looking up at the sky, and then suddenly it was dark and it had been like three hours. I left soon after I realized that and I ordered food, hoping if I gorged myself the high would go away faster. I was barely functional. The only reason I can tell the difference between dreams and my high memories is that it makes sense for them to have happened in reality. I don't recall getting the food I ordered at all, but I remember coming back to my room. I ate all of it, spent two hours inside my room (which, again, I do not remember) and fell asleep sitting up at 11 PM. I didn't wake up for four hours, and I had a migraine at that point. It was awful.

I hate getting high. I hate being drunk (I love being drunk). I hate waking up after doing either of these things. Or, you know what, I mostly just hate being high. The drunkenness, I only hate because I feel so much when I'm drunk, and then I don't feel it when I'm awake.

I think about being drunk and my question is, "What is the point?" I think of the alternative, which is to sit in my room alone. Less often, I think of sitting around with friends watching a movie. But I don't really want to be with my friends or with myself or with anyone else. So: might as well, might as well.

You know what else I hate? Eating. I hate eating. I love being hungry, feeling that hunger in me. I don't like satisfying that craving, running my fingers down from below my boobs to my hips. I am not fat or anything, but I hate knowing something is in there, inside me. I want to stop eating forever sometimes, to stop eating until I shrivel up and disappear.

These are not healthy thoughts, is what a part of me says. I don't feel bad, though, I just feel—bored. Even though I am not bored, not truly. I am always thinking, always planning, but somehow I am just, in the bones, bored. I can't find a cure in kisses or alcohol or in the space of an empty stomach but I rummage there. I rummage. The only place it is, I find, is in stories that don't belong to me. Others' worlds, and wanderings, where they put names to things I couldn't find words for. I wanna fill you up and be filled up, the way they do it for themselves and for others. Or maybe not themselves, but someone at least—me at least.

Instead I am here coughing and smiling and listening to music, waiting for working to begin in a couple of hours, waiting to take shots after that. Maybe I'll find a guy, maybe we'll hang out and I'll be bored but at least satisfied for a time, scared away from the idea of physical touch by its reality. I know I am not unhappy. I think I could call myself "happy" actually. There's nothing wrong with me. I just think too much, and then I think too much about the thoughts generated by thinking. So from my soul's aimlessness, it's search for grounding somewhere in something in someone, from it comes the question of why I drink so much and whether or not I will end up hurting myself. I don't want to hurt myself.

But the question of why I drink so much is a stupid one. I drink because I'm young and that's what we young people do. It is not to fill an emptiness—I don't expect to fill that up. Do I even want to fill it up?

I don't know anymore. I'm going to have fun tonight, that's all. The more I think about it, the less fun it will be, so I'm going to stop before it becomes something it isn't.

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