Saturday, Feb. 04, 2006 - 03:15
I was looking at my old entries, from over 3 years ago, and saw this.
A year and a half.
I doubt that even if I stayed with it, it would have gotten better.
After the three-month mark I could already feel the soft dread of something in my body going wrong, getting worse. Besides, chiropractors are quacks.
Fuck.
I wish it would at least have fixed my headaches though. Fix. Ha. Tell it to the bottles of Aspirin I own.
I miss...
...being a stupid, bright, hopeful CHILD. Although, honestly, I was never that optimistic, or wanted to be a child, but the blind naïveté that shielded me and made me sort-of-normal-even-if-not-really... Never mind, I have no idea where I'm going with this and half of what I just said wasn't even true.
Now nothing's right. Everything followed that stupid right shoulder's course. Let's just say that I'm bitter.
Fuck. I promised myself that I wouldn't whine about it anymore. Whining about it is just so pathetic and...Munchausen-ish.
It's all my own fault, anyway. A stupid psychological yearning gone wrong, I bet.
Don't anyone comment on this stupid entry or I'll go on a psychotic rampage caused by embarrassment and do life.
A note: This may be slightly ironic, but I'm employing the weblog style, which lends a bit of LJ-ness to this thing, since I so recently rejected LJ. It's just that I have a tendency to not finish my thoughts and post mutiple times a day and it's not immediately obvious that I had back-to-back entries. So, every day I update my journal is going to have its own page. Some may only have 1 entry, others may have lots.
Saturday, Feb. 04, 2006 - 01:14
I'm jealous.
It's not bad, though. Not really, anyway. If only a little self-deprecating.
Sometimes I find a really good writer online and I read their posts and like just now, I get absolutely blown away by what they write and they make my heart race and palms sweat frozen to the spot just with their simple, beautiful words. It makes me wish that I could do it on my own, that I could stop myself from simply emulating them and watch myself become nowt but a big, stupid blob of other people's souls. I try to comfort myself by thinking that it's alright, because I'm just saying what comes to mind, so it isn't important, but in the back of my head my sarcastic bitch voice is saying that that's complete bullshit, that if I ever had an original, non-cheap knock-off idea in my life I might suffer braindeath from shock. If my writing's never consistent, then how the fuck am I supposed to pretend that it's just mine? It's like I suck up parts of people's lives and they congregate in my head and there's more and more and more and more and more and some fall into disuse but they're still there so they just take up space and confuse me and there's no breathing room but more and more still get crammed in there and the million pieces of things that aren't me make up who I am. It's like I'm Frankenstein's monster, made up of dead people limbs and organs and tissues and gross, disgusting, unnatural things and the whole thing is like a madhouse filled with schizophrenic crazies because even the schizophrenia has schizophrenia and none of it is me and I don't know where the piece that was me even went. Thousands of doors lead to thousands of hallways that have thousands of rooms and there just aren't enough atoms in the world to map the entire thing and I'm only as insignificant as the rest of the pieces and I will spare the tired old "grain of sand on a beach" metaphor here.
It's not really bad though. I don't feel angry or sad over it. Not this. Just confused.
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