Problematic

I'm stuck in the first verse. Conceptually I can never get past the beginning of anything. It feels like no matter how far I think I have come I have just been treading water this whole time. The only comfort is that someday this can be used as a reasonably honest record of mental instability. I think there would have to be an "after" to get to if I were ever to utilize it myself. It's hard to structure a narrative with no ending- just bleeding problems into problems without resolution sounds torturous. Life is torturous. The newest expanse of my hellscape comes in the form of this dilemma: my position is being eliminated. My boss is kind. She is scary in some ways. Very pretty. Very tall. She's the kind of adult I dream of being but will never be self-confident or white enough to grow into. I am uncertain of whether she thinks I am as useful as she says. She was kind though, and tried to spin the move in the nicest way possible. Nice, but realistic. And I w

Sunday- October 9th: Eventually all the lights will go out. Living alone has just made me aware of how many small things I managed to live without just because I had someone else. Both physical things and bits of knowledge. I will eventually need a step ladder. I like to think I am tall for a girl but I am not that tall. Not tall enough to be useful. Just tall enough to make me uncomfortable wearing heels around shorter guys. By my calculations I am able to read three quarters of a page in a minute. Although, that is really meaningless because what is a page? How many words are on a page on average? I could very well be reading those hard glossy books that they give to very small children. Each with but three to five words on their inflexible pages. I feel as though that's what I should be reading. I feel as though that's the best I can do to understand the world. Spot runs. I can see it. This is a truth that need not be further parsed. Instead I read YA novels and Desca

Monday, October 3rd, 3am: I should learn to communicate with more simplicity. What am I gaining by being so verbose? I write as I do most things, in a needlessly complicated and stumbling manner. It would make sense if I were clumsier. Or, rather, it would not be surprising if I were clumsy. I am not, typically. I shouldn't be awake right now. I should be doing more school work since I am awake. Sunday, October 9th, 11:30am: I have so much of the day ahead of me. I wonder if I spent less time wondering about frivolous things, truly useless things, would I be able to understand Descarte by now? It has been some time since we last spoke. I had a nightmare about you and your lover. I hate the word lover. I have grown used to using the word lover in a context that I have never enjoyed in practice. I wish I knew of a better term. All terms for someone's significant other that doesn't fit into a category (ie- boyfriend, girlfriend, wife, husband, mistress) sound objecti

One of the problems with living in one room is that I know every area of the surface I sleep on has been touched by The Kitten's butt. I'm sure of it. There's no way she has been kind enough to avoid even a single space. I lie in a bed of contamination. I realized today that I have lost time. Or become less aware of it passing. I thought it was still mid-September. Time is such a fickle concept as an adult. I spend so much of my day desperately grasping at the sands of it, feeling as though I am sinking beneath it and trying to claw every opportunity out on the way down. Then I realize so many small moments just add up to an empty beach. Not even a particularly pretty one. What a cliche perspective. In mulling over my musical I am trying to push myself out of such trite and common descriptors. I don't know if I will succeed. I suppose there's no harm in trying. It probably helps that I am reading more often again, and getting faster. I still have far more books