I'm not sure what I want to do with my life. I mean, I have an inkling of an a fringe of a passing thought of an idea, but that's like catching a whiff of a fragrance of a passing meal and then planning and cooking dinner just off that briefest of savory sniffs. Then to add that your "life" hinges on it- perception warps the gravity of such things.
I may not know what I want to do in life, but I know what I am doing now is not it. That's all I know for certain.
And what do I have to lose? Lost income at a job that I can tolerate, but don't really like? Sometimes, I wonder why I don't take more risk. We always think we have more security than we actually do and then magnify the consequences of risk. That's why we're all such bad gamblers. We remember our losses and the sting of them, rather than the briefest moments of glory. Glory is tarnished with times. The sting of a loss is what haunts dreamless night (or at least my dreamless nights. That and sleeping on an empty stomach. Look I know I'm fat and I know I'm dieting but seriously, do you have to be showing every fast food commercial at 11:30 at night when I'm trying to go to bed? Seriously).
These are the moments that I wish I drank more. I could numb things. Not feel. Not think. Not notice. Not remember. I drink when I'm happy. To celebrate the company of friends. These are the times when I should treasure and let the memories be clear and focused, yet I let them turn into a blur of laughter and smiles and awkward flirtations with exchanged phone numbers that lead to carefully worded text messages and answers with ambiguous connotations.
Dear life. I hate text messages. I hate myself for sending them. Please shoot me. But miss, I still enjoy my life.
I forget how therapeutic writing is sometimes. It gives me a little objective distance to be bemused at how dumb some of the stuff running through my head sounds. Sadly, much of it sounds like overemotional teenage dribble, but more eloquent and thought out (and wittier) with biting sarcasm (and wit) and dash of bitterness (and wit).
As I sit here, alone, single, living in my brother's abode, under his good graces, with two lazy (but cute) dogs, I contemplate running tonight, a task that I neither look forward to, nor do I enjoy, but I know for the sake of betterment of oneself, I must. Like the 30 seconds before work where I sit at my car and let the car just run and wonder why I don't just choose to drive away and never look back.
Damn consequences. Damn fucking consequences.
