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mood |
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music |
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Madonna "You Can Dance"...gettin' up again, over and over |
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What's up, everyone... here once again on Friday night, taking a night off from festivites and my usual keggers for a night of chillaxing and respiration and caffeine. Don't particularly know why I really want to stay home other than earlier today I was completely depressed and completely in need of escape from...this state of mind, this goddamn rut, I guess. Again, the emo level here is dangerous, beware. So early in the day today I went to 75th Street thinking Solutions To Everything would be there. Nope, just TJ Maxx. I browsed Old Navy and Best Buy and then eventually Disc Replay where I bought a $7.99 copy of Laura Nyro's Eli and the Thirteenth Confession because the first disc of my Laura Nyro double disc is gone and I need her songs again. So that was kind of nice to get.
Guys, I'm almost ready to officially call it: I'm depressed. I have moments of resurgence and perspesctive, but my overwhelming, tiring bouts of frustration seem to persist more, and I frankly don't know why. Sure I got screwed over awhile ago, but why is that hurting me even now? Okay, things I was insecure about were brought to the forefront (aka sexuality, my belief in my judgment), but that, realistically, is awhile ago. I just hate not being able to explain myself to people and have them say, "Oh, okay, that makes sense, let's come to consensus, let's forgive, let's move on." Then I realize the reason that didn't happen isn't my problem. Oh well. The biggest reason for my depression must be my loneliness, as I have (of course) outlined many times before. It's not just a feeling like there's no one around, it's that there's no one who could possibly understand where I'm coming from, who's been where I'm coming from, who can laugh out loud at the absurdity of where we've been, and who can talk it out in a sensible, aware way. Now here this: most of this loneliness could be just the restless teenager in me. I mean, come on, who doesn't feel at some time like no one can understand them? That's what half of music and poetry is all about. The other half is probably about cocaine. That was a joke. Anyway, I think I've also got issues knowing that I'm going to move to college soon. I can just picture myself days before the move getting really nervous and throwing up and getting introspective and nowhere fast. I hope there are people at college who will like to talk to me about being scared and stuff. Worst nightmare... arriving at U of Iowa to masses of people who seem to only know two words: "MORE BEER!" Then again, maybe that would be funny. It's too soon to call.
Speaking of which, it is official, I'm going to University of Iowa. So is Kinga and maybe Kimmie...which would kick so much that I'd build a TCBY on campus in our honor. I'm going to miss so many goddamn people. I can't imagine going like...a week without seeing Elyse or my mom or Monica or even Eric Forst or whoever. I'm also excited, but it's hard to revel in that excitement while there's so much shit ahead of me. For instance, I have a unit test in Stats on Monday on three chapters...that I know NOTHING for. NOTHING. This is the biggest screw-up in my high school career. Even during my worst chemistry classes, I'm pretty sure I had like...half a clue on how to do at least one problem. Oh no, not Stats. Leslie Ebersold and her inability to write correct numbers are both the bane of my existence. It's times like during that class I wish I was doing algebra. Or heroin. Or doing back-breaking labor in the jungle. Maybe even giving birth. Anything but Stats.
Also, within the past couple days, I've been questioning the intentions of a couple individuals around me...well, one individual. I really hate having to waste time thinking, "God, is this person being sincere? Am I making a huge fucking mistake?" I really hope she isn't, because she'd have another thing coming if she was, first of all, befriending me only for egotistical benefits and second of all, if she's giving me a deliberatly wrong impression about her interractions with other acquaintances of mine. She might be the mole. Where the fuck is Anderson Cooper when I need him?
I'm geeking myself up for the drama banquet which can't be too far away. Sooner or later, I'm going to start writing my big speech for that. I plan on specifically addressing many of the seniors, and shining all their shoes respectively. I'm not exactly sure who I'll address though...there are some for-sures, like people who've been hardcore about drama for awhile, but...argh, I simply won't have time to address all the seniors. This could get political fast. I'm afraid people's feelings will get hurt. God dammit. Oh well, I'll write stuff to the people who need to hear what I have to say.
I hate not being able to write a poem I'm proud of. I wish I wasn't completely discouraged every time I couldn't up with a great line. I've got some lingering problem where I think I have a problem believing I must keep topping myself, like everything I write has to be successively better than the last thing I wrote. What-fucking-ever. Another problem: I'm simply not passionate about too much anymore. My entire depression or pseudo-depression has drained me and made me become jaded and ambivalent towards things I used to think about with awe for hours. Monica told me at lunch the other day that I'm different than I was last year in that I'm more jaded than I was then. Which just fucking sucks. Really wish I could regain all that non-jadedness...God, I hate feeling like I've lost more than I've gained in the past year. The muse, the excitement, the feeling that I was gonna make poetry something I'd do for life...man. Kind of a bummer. Maybe it's all temporary though, who knows. In the long run, this senior year will probably do me good. And I don't mean Mr. Clark's English class...could that man seriously bring up another email that says how "his class helps in college". Chill the fuck out, Mr. Clark, you're not gaining any fans as you wax philospohically about the transcendental beauty of your English class. We aren't in the movie Dead Poets Society, and you're not Robin Williams. That wasn't even a very good movie.
It's time to get along now. I've written for awhile, and man, still feel restless. Dear God, help me with these feelings I'm so fed up with. Help me sail through the changes, help me "dance and sing, get up and do my thing". I miss my thing. Or maybe I'm doing my thing right now. I really don't feel this sorry for myself, it all just comes rolling out when I write in the deadjournal. Again, I've got the coolest, most loving people around me. And I've got the ability and brains and know-how and cd collection to get through all my shit. Living in a ghost world can be fun sometimes, I've gotta remember that. Thank you to all who are reading and who are supportive and who are themselves and who embrace me and milkshakes and fun. You are the best. And I'm out for now.
And don't you forget, we're always beautiful,
Louis.
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