There's something nice about that first beer after work.
I was thinking last night, and since i've been thinking like i've lost my mind, and suddenly stepped outside myself the last 48 to 72 hours, I came to a conclusion that I used to drink because I couldn't handle the reality of myself, and I used to smoke pot because I couldn't handle my unfocused anger and violent moods. We self medicate ourselves more and more, turning to drugs, alcohol, or whatever we subconsciously think is going to improve our lives somehow. Even if it's fleeting, or we think we're doing it out of boredom. We get fucked up because we are fucked up and we don't know how to unfuck ourselves.
Or at least, I don't. Happiness is fleeting. Maybe there's just something wrong with me, but is seems as soon as I'm onto something good, it never lasts. I kept having that Fight Club quote (from the movie) about shooting every panda between the eyes, run through my head. It's not always the most pleasent feeling in the world to hate yourself for something you don't think you can ever pin down.
Maybe I'm bipolar, or borderline personality or some shit, but I don't feel like I have violent mood swings during a single day, it's more like my mood violently changes from day to day because of stupid shit I do, and I can't always bury and hide how I feel, to people I actually care about, which sometimes makes it worse.
Oh well.
It's sunday. The day for the blinded church goers, and those who have faith to walk into a building and listen to someone who might never have actually lived tell them how to live their lives. They say Good can't exist without Evil, so I don't see how you can live a pure life without ever having lived a destroyed one. Maybe it's just my idea of hyprocracy. Sunday is also the day that the so called sinners spend recovering, or the macho fucktwats drink beer and watch men in skintight pants tackle each other. I've done both, neither of which I think were all that great. What the hell does sunday mean to me now? It means sleep, and work. Yeah, I could give a fuck less what day of the week it is, just give me a vacation from myself.
I've decided I'm just going to keep rambling in my blog finally, maybe someone will pay attention, maybe someone won't. Maybe when I'm famous for some stupid bullshit, and finally die, they'll make a book out of my journal entries, and try and get some bullshit pseudoscience freudian readings off of what my psyche was like when I was a fucked up 20-something year old. Until then, I'll just finish off reading Kobaine's journals, just because I like seeing the changing style of handwriting, if nothing else.
I was thinking last night, and since i've been thinking like i've lost my mind, and suddenly stepped outside myself the last 48 to 72 hours, I came to a conclusion that I used to drink because I couldn't handle the reality of myself, and I used to smoke pot because I couldn't handle my unfocused anger and violent moods. We self medicate ourselves more and more, turning to drugs, alcohol, or whatever we subconsciously think is going to improve our lives somehow. Even if it's fleeting, or we think we're doing it out of boredom. We get fucked up because we are fucked up and we don't know how to unfuck ourselves.
Or at least, I don't. Happiness is fleeting. Maybe there's just something wrong with me, but is seems as soon as I'm onto something good, it never lasts. I kept having that Fight Club quote (from the movie) about shooting every panda between the eyes, run through my head. It's not always the most pleasent feeling in the world to hate yourself for something you don't think you can ever pin down.
Maybe I'm bipolar, or borderline personality or some shit, but I don't feel like I have violent mood swings during a single day, it's more like my mood violently changes from day to day because of stupid shit I do, and I can't always bury and hide how I feel, to people I actually care about, which sometimes makes it worse.
Oh well.
It's sunday. The day for the blinded church goers, and those who have faith to walk into a building and listen to someone who might never have actually lived tell them how to live their lives. They say Good can't exist without Evil, so I don't see how you can live a pure life without ever having lived a destroyed one. Maybe it's just my idea of hyprocracy. Sunday is also the day that the so called sinners spend recovering, or the macho fucktwats drink beer and watch men in skintight pants tackle each other. I've done both, neither of which I think were all that great. What the hell does sunday mean to me now? It means sleep, and work. Yeah, I could give a fuck less what day of the week it is, just give me a vacation from myself.
I've decided I'm just going to keep rambling in my blog finally, maybe someone will pay attention, maybe someone won't. Maybe when I'm famous for some stupid bullshit, and finally die, they'll make a book out of my journal entries, and try and get some bullshit pseudoscience freudian readings off of what my psyche was like when I was a fucked up 20-something year old. Until then, I'll just finish off reading Kobaine's journals, just because I like seeing the changing style of handwriting, if nothing else.