this is a robbery

things that are making me bitter right now:

1. facebook. it's bittersweet, really...but mostly bitter. the white upper-middle-class upbringing produced a crop of yuppie parents, who seem to be breeding urgently and furiously as they scatter themselves and the air that they breathe about the united states.

i'm glad they find joy in their own reflections and their miniature flesh-and-blood stanchions of innocence.

of course i can't tell any of them about the devastation. i can't even write about it, because it's a huge joke. i'm talking about MY devastation, that makes me the paranoid space-cadet i am today. my personal devastation, which i am desperately trying to learn from and become more compassionate because of, hopefully.

it might lead me on the fringe again, the fringe that passerby's don't see, won't see, pretend not to see. just tell me to get a job, i dare you.

so yeah, facebook...i guess i'll always be pushing the boundaries of my own morbid curiosity. paint me a picture of your fantastic, wealthy and genetically superior lives. and then, paint me more. and more, until you're fucking exhausted.

(on the plus side, i do have some real friends on there, thank heaven for them...)


2. trying to quit smoking yesterday and suffering awful withdrawal symptoms (worse than before, i swear) after only like, 20 hours clean. how the hell do you DO this??? i'm drooling as i type! (and yes, i've smoked since then. in case you were concerned.)

i think what gets me are people who can bum cigarettes when they drink or when they're around smokers, but don't crave the nicotine when they're alone. it really is an addiction and it makes me sick, and even sicker to know that some rich guy is taking the last dollar from my pocket. why am i PAYING for it? is that just the kicker or what??


3. bitterness itself makes me bitter. sugary-ness makes me bitter, too. i wish i could control my emotions perfectly.

emotional diabetes?

4. i wish i could--and WOULD-- paint. the only thing holding me back is the physicality of opening up my supply box.

the dead don't paint; only the living. i have 2 hands enough, i have arms enough. i even have room (for a couple of weeks). still i feel a little nauseated at the prospect of painting alone, and people seeing me paint and wondering what is wrong with me, and thanking themselves for being normal.