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I want a little note book to write in when I cannot get to a computer. My hand writing is atrocious but in times like this it’s either write or self-destruct.

I am broke. I have no job. I am unemployed. I am lazy. I sleep till 2pm everyday and do not care. I don’t make enough art or big enough pieces to justify living in this 1700/month studio. My parents are disapointed in me. No that that should matter, but it fucking does. I have no sex drive whatsoever. I wish I could sleep all day and not wake up. I am told I may be depressed. They might be right. My roommate is being passive, grumpy, stressed and it is getting on my fucking nerves.

I have no desire to throw another party. The thrill is gone. It left a long time ago. I want to fly to Maui and live on the beach. I don’t want pitty. Yet I feel completely fucked. I refuse to go on medication. It will weaken my will and confirm my weak-mindedness. I feel selfish even telling you this. As if you fucking care or need to hear this. I feel like what you’re thinking is right. I fully agree with you — “You have nothing to worry about. Nothing to complain about.” So then what the fuck is my problem?

I didn’t pray when I woke up this morning. When I realized I hadn’t I was listening to Heresy. God is dead and no one cares. atleast when I don’t care.

It was like looking at myself under a magnifying glass all day. Brutal self-obsession. I don’t like to be there anymore. Times when i literally walk around in circles because i can’t decide which direction to walk.

I hope to wake inspired tomorrow. I am planning to start my day right. I am wondering what the fuck I am doing these days. I am accomplishing nothing. It feels like summer in high school. nothing to do and the pending doom of september and back to school. I haven’t even been to the fucking beach yet. Even this blog is pissing me off. If i just whack off to some porn and go to bed everything will be okay. I can sleep then, and dream. And when I wake up i will be inspired. I will be inspired by my dreams. I will pray and will feel good about myself. I won’t hate being alive in this ground hog day existence.

I remember that place. I almost didn’t care. I was getting what I needed. I didn’t know what I could have had. You reminded me of that place. I was so lonely cause no one was willing to open up. We all had our fists up. None of us wanted to be vulnerable to the same daggers that we used on everyone around us. Isolation was the key to our existence. Atleast you always have yourself. Atleast you can always depend on Number One. Until you can’t. Loyalty was nothing. Friendships were lies. I used you. You used me. Isn’t that how we all get what we need? You may disagree. I remember clearly. I know you know as well. I know you feel alone. I know you felt not so alone with me.

I don’t compromise anymore. I don’t have to. I’m never alone. I’m rarely lonely. I have people who would honestly die for me. And I would die for them. Our souls connect on levels and depths I couldn’t have comprehended.

Put all your walls up. Don’t let anyone know you. Pretend to be someone you’re not. Don’t share. Don’ t talk about your feelings. Talk behind my back. keep eachother in our delusion. If anyone gets to know you then they can verify that you are nothing you know you want to be.

Kayso, talked things through with her. Actually I flailed around her living room, flapping my arms like a lunatic through spurts of dialogue – the ramblings of my cyclic thoughts that had been plaguing me. I said a lot of things that I regretted saying right after I said them. Truths, the kind you usually hold back for fear of retaliation. I just let them come out with her. I don’t censor, like this blog. I just say whatever I feel inspired to say. It just flows. The weird thing is, no matter how harsh the things I say, how scared I am to say them, the worst reaction she ever makes is a shocked face. The shocked face particular to her that I have grown so accustomed to. I love that about her. I am never scared to say anything. I know she understands me cause she understands me enough to give me allowances. Fear slips away and we get closer. Slept in her bed last night, comfortably. I woke up from a dream and felt I was still in one. I opened my eyes and at the back of her head. It took me a moment to understand who I was lying next to, in the delirious fog that accompanies dreams. I was happy when I saw it was her. It felt real.

I miss having a home. I miss living in a place that has windows and central heating. I miss the feeling of breeze and birds chirping when I’m waking up. I miss having carpet in my bedroom. I miss having a clean shower. A clean bathroom. A bathroom with tiles. I miss having a kitchen. A stove. I miss the pasta we used to make at Char’s house. The kind when we’d make the sauce from scratch.

I empty a can of STAGG Chili in to a tupperware bowl and microwave it. This artificial meal is the closest thing to a meal I’ve made myself in months. I miss the ability to cook for myself. I feel disconnected from the lifestyles of every one else I know. No one lives the way I do…. Even other artist types, ones who work all day in “studios”. They all live in normal apartments dressed up to look like studios. They all have the conveniences that would never make them miss living in Yaletown, yet they have a “studio” so they can be called “artists”. My studio? My studio is a fucking gutted commercial space on hastings that barely has running hot water with my bed in the middle of it. It’s easy to feel like a junky without even shooting junk. yet, it’s easy to be grateful. Everyday I walk out on to a street of people who don’t even have the luxury of a door they can lock themselves in with. People who want more than anything what I so easily take for granted – the fact that I am free from the drugs which still run their lives. And that is all I really should give a fuck about. All I have to pray for and be thankful for.

Fucking Blogger just nuked my last attempt at a post… Let me try to reconstruct what I was saying:

I’m getting asked a lot lately if I’m depressed. I don’t really know, to tell you the truth. I don’t really honestly know what depression looks like. All I know is that I have next to zero motivation to do anything when I’m awake. I really enjoy lying in my bed, dreaming and sleeping. Last night I slept 14 hours. The night before, 12. The night before that, 11. If it was because of the weather it might be understandable for me, but it has been sunny. usually the weather is the only thing that would keep me i bed so long. What keeps me in bed for so long now is that I’m just not really too stoked to wake up and face yet another day, day after day. I hate having to think about what the day will bring. All the thought, concern and effort that goes in to a day.

I just don’t even know what is wrong with me. Or if there is anything wrong with me. I’m thinking of getting a meaningless job – like a taxi driver, just so i can have some reason to get up. Cause making art apparently isn’t enough to wake me up at a reasonable hour. Writing seems to be enough to keep me up late.

Whenever I feel fucked I just tell myself that this day will pass. I try to not get anxious about the lack of activity and substance in my daily life. I try to tell myself that I am only three months sober. That when I am 4 years sober or 9 years sober my life will be so much better than I can even imagine right now so I just shouldn’t even worry. That I should just be taking it easy. Fuck, I just try hard to resist the urge sometimes that tells me getting high right now is the way out, that inhaling chemical vapours is the solution to my “problem” with my indecisiveness about life.

She told me that there is medication for people like me. I was shocked that her suggested solution to my issues was more drugs. Getting off drugs is the whole fucking reason I am going through all this shit int he first place, and not bailing out, like I always do. So then why the fuck would I go back on drugs? Even if you call them “meds” instead of “dope”. Same fucking difference. Oh, and incase you were wondering, I stopped taking Zyban.

I hang on in the nighttime to this last sliver of the day because it seems to be the only time of the day when I realize I’m alive enough to take part in my life. It is now when it hits me, the realization of all the days I have wasted and the pain felt for all the days which I will waste here on as I stumble onward blind. Blind as when I wake up tomorrow again to meet again with myself tomorrow night for this night time recompense.
Fuck this. And I go back to sleep.

So my friend and I are addicted to video games. Well, to say video games implies something in the realm of Nintendo and Genesis. No, I’m talking about computer games. We just call it “killing shit” cause that’s what we do. We go and spend 2-4 hours a day sitting at computers beside each other playing cooperative LAN games of Battlefield: Vietnam. I like flying the helicopters. They are hard to fly and I enjoy the challenge of trying to fly them and blow up the VietCong’s tanks and avoid enemy RPG fire at the same time. Besides being asleep this is the only thing I really look forward to these days – killing shit.

It’s friday night and the heart of this small city is throbbing and bleeding it’s vile fluids all over my doorstep. I just want to be asleep, but for some reason I can’t make myself go and lie down and forfit this useless day. I don’t feel depressed, but i show symptoms of it.

I want to sit still and read. I want to sit still and listen to music. I want to write. I want to write songs like I’ve always wanted to do. I want to play music with other people more. I want to make more art. I want to cut a new stencil. I want to work on the art for the show next weekend.

But every morning when I wake up I just roll over and go back to sleep and stay in bed until I realize that I have to get up at some point. I rise from my 8-12 hour slumber and face the same day over and over. Atleast I don’t use drugs anymore. Atleast I don’t smoke anymore. These are my two claims to fame. Fuck that. I don’t function at all till I get coffee at Blake’s and a rice krispy square at the Cambie Bakery & General Store. Every morning without fail. I have no time commitments. I can take as long as I want to do anything. I start calling people frantically at around this time. Or I take on some other meaningless activity to avoid the draw of my bed which sucks me luck a tractor beam back to it’s comfort. Sometimes I give in and nap till the evening. Or I dick around, playing computer games or riding my BMX around downtown. Then I feel like shit and unfulfilled, so I go to a meeting. After the meeting I am hungry again and get more coffee. Then before I know it it’s 1am and I’m wondering why and when my days started evaporating in to a meaningless blur. I then go play more video games or go to her house. Either way, it seems to fulfill the same selfish need – to not think, to escape from my own dwindling sense of reality. I need to get a fucking life.

and i just feel like by being honest with myself to admit that I actually do miss you is some how compromising my position… that it’s gonna end up being used against me… or that i’m gonna fuck something up that is good.

You hardly speak around that kind of stuff but that feels okay for me… I just sometimes think to myself “OH! why did you say that!” after I say show any affection towards you.

I think I would rather that you know that I adore you and for it not to work out than for it to work out and me never tell you that I actually really adore you.