Today, I ate two pieces of cold roast chicken, some Sweet Maui Onion flavored potator chips, a hard-boiled egg that had grown stone cold after I forgot about it for three hours, a packet of Picante Beef flavored ramen, a banana, some Satsuma Mandarin oranges, and three glasses of wine. I can almost feel the bits of my brain that are undernourished, as though my brains were cobbled together with the individual vitamins, like Legos, and if I'm missing one, there's a real danger that the whole deal will collapse.
I have literally nothing happening in my life except for the screenplay, and so the progress of that is having a heavy infuence on my mood.
I took a break from it today to call my only friend who lives here in Seattle, maybe get a pep talk. That didn't work out. She has recently managed to make herself a whole slew of new friends, so she has no patience for talk of writing and ideas. Coincidentally, I don't have much patience for her yammering stories about the adventures she and her friends are having. Although apparently a group of six marines knocked on her door this morning trying to get a hold of her ex-boyfriend who has gone AWOL from the Navy. That bit was interesting. But it's hard to get too excited about the latest episode of her life, when she doesn't seem to give a shit about my problems. Little pep talk. That's all I wanted.
The difficulty is that once you start becoming a hermit, it gets harder and harder to stop the process. It seems as though the world just keeps getting older and more sophisticated, while I am stuck with the social skills of, say, a twelve year old.
On top of it, I feel about as creative as a spoon. See? A "spoon." That's the best I could come up with. Maybe it will come back. I don't know. I feel like crap. See? "Crap." I feel like crap. I honestly can't think of anything better.
I feel like the gum on the bottom of my slippers.
No, that sucks. I don't even own any slippers.
I feel like drawn wool.
I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. I don't even really know what drawn wool feels like.
I feel like a ladybug on the interstate.
Except that I don't. I don't feel like that at all.
I feel like Guilt shaking hands with Fear.
Not only do I not know what that means, I don't think it's even a simile.
I feel like I'm made of fleas.
Better.
I feel like darkness is stroking the back of my head with icy intent.
Worse. Actually, a lot worse.
I feel like the remains of Creep and Thug.
I don't know what's going on with that. It makes an odd sort of sense to me, though.
I feel like death just ignored me.
And that's true. It's accurate. I don't know if it's a good way of communicating anything, but I'm satisfied. No I'm not. But I'm stopping.
I have literally nothing happening in my life except for the screenplay, and so the progress of that is having a heavy infuence on my mood.
I took a break from it today to call my only friend who lives here in Seattle, maybe get a pep talk. That didn't work out. She has recently managed to make herself a whole slew of new friends, so she has no patience for talk of writing and ideas. Coincidentally, I don't have much patience for her yammering stories about the adventures she and her friends are having. Although apparently a group of six marines knocked on her door this morning trying to get a hold of her ex-boyfriend who has gone AWOL from the Navy. That bit was interesting. But it's hard to get too excited about the latest episode of her life, when she doesn't seem to give a shit about my problems. Little pep talk. That's all I wanted.
The difficulty is that once you start becoming a hermit, it gets harder and harder to stop the process. It seems as though the world just keeps getting older and more sophisticated, while I am stuck with the social skills of, say, a twelve year old.
On top of it, I feel about as creative as a spoon. See? A "spoon." That's the best I could come up with. Maybe it will come back. I don't know. I feel like crap. See? "Crap." I feel like crap. I honestly can't think of anything better.
I feel like the gum on the bottom of my slippers.
No, that sucks. I don't even own any slippers.
I feel like drawn wool.
I'm pretty sure I read that somewhere. I don't even really know what drawn wool feels like.
I feel like a ladybug on the interstate.
Except that I don't. I don't feel like that at all.
I feel like Guilt shaking hands with Fear.
Not only do I not know what that means, I don't think it's even a simile.
I feel like I'm made of fleas.
Better.
I feel like darkness is stroking the back of my head with icy intent.
Worse. Actually, a lot worse.
I feel like the remains of Creep and Thug.
I don't know what's going on with that. It makes an odd sort of sense to me, though.
I feel like death just ignored me.
And that's true. It's accurate. I don't know if it's a good way of communicating anything, but I'm satisfied. No I'm not. But I'm stopping.
I'm a hermit. A bitch hermit, as some say. Last night, as I said, was my first night out in almost forever. I stay mostly in my room and on the computer. I rarely talk to people at school. Not worth my time, though.
That makes me so hungry. I think it's time for roast beef flavored ramon noodles. And, there are many forms of rhetoric other than similes you can work with. And more fun, too.
I can't exactly describe the taste. It's one of those things you just can't identify and/or put a name to, for the life of oneself. I'll figure it out someday, and then I'll let you know.
Besides loving the sunset, I found a few pieces that I stared at/listened to for quite a bit. One was a black room. In the middle was a brass bed with a red velvet (I think) blanket, and a white pillow. A spot light was shining on it. Above it, was a big screen, and projected on it was an open chest of some animal or human, you could see the lungs take in air, but it was mostly just a heart, beating. You could see the muscles sort of vibrate/flub a bit. There was also the smell of fermaldihyde (major sp). If you stood there and watched, slowly the heart slowed down, so after about fifteen minutes, it stopped. Like death slowly took over. Then started to go faster again, and repeat. Odd.
I got a cashew chicken sandwich for sure, I remember because it was the only thing that sounded edible, and I made a fuss over it.
Well, we remembered many things about our first times, it's just that inches came up, and you know how that goes. Unfortunately, despite the size thing, I'd rather have my virginity back (I think I said something about that in my profile).