This day is neutral, but, if I really thought about it, it kinda sucks, but has the potential to bec
I’ve been sleeping, and sleeping, and sleeping. My god, I can’t sleep anymore. Every fifteen minutes my alarm goes off, and every fifteen minutes, I get up (actually get up and walk across the room) and press snooze. This goes on until three o’clock in the afternoon. So many times this week I was going to update, I really was. Random funny things happened, I had a few deep and profound thoughts, and then, instead, I watched Mtv.
I found out my crush has a girlfriend. Oh the humanity. All of my friends are like, “Geesh, Cindigo, get over it.” So I try. I don’t say anything about it and I go about my day switching between sleeping and drinking coffee.
I had so much more to say before I sat down in this chair with my red mug of orange juice.
I had a dream yesterday that I had an operation to take out my liver. In the dream, I was very alarmed and kept telling everyone that I couldn’t live without a liver. In reality, the function of the liver is to break up big junk and make it able to go into your intistines to get rid of it. If you don’t have a liver basically, you would have all of that rotting junk in your body and die. So, if my subconcious is telling me that I don’t have a metaphorical liver, and I’m holding on to all kinds of junk that I don’t have the ability to process that gives me one of two choices: (1) die or (2) somehow find a metaphorical liver. Christ, where does someone find something like that….the phone book?
Alright, I have to meet someone for lunch in less than an hour and I’m still in sweatpants with my hair sticking up all over the place…and not sticking up in a cool way either.
But first, one of my favorite depressing poems that really puts better words to my mood. It’s called On the Roof by C.K. Williams:
The trouble with me is that whether I get love or not
I suffer from it. My heart always seems to be prowling
a mile ahead of me, and, by the time I get there to surround it, it’s chewing fences in the next county, clawing
the bank-vault wall down or smashing in the window
I’d just started etching my name on with my diamond.
And that’s how come I end up on the roof. Because even if I talk
into my fist everyone still hears my voice like the ocean
in theirs, and so they solace me and I have to keep
breaking toes with my gun-boots and coming up here
to live-by myself, like an aerial, with a hand on the ledge,
one eye glued to the tin door and one to the skylight.
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