I talked a lot about blogging this weekend. About blogging and tragedy, which are not the same thing, but they can be. A blog done wrong is tragic just like those people with little to say and a completely uncreative way to say it.

I freak out and over-obsess all the time and people know this about me and have started to pay little attention to my sort of freak out sessions. It’s almost as if, in my head, as long as I am in charge of everything going on I am totally cool. When I feel like I am pulling the strings nothing can bother me I am a pseudo-god. I am the deity of my own life. When things are moving along like my red hot candy finger nails against the keyboard–I am completely as ease with my life. But then I have to go and introduce new people and new jobs and new situations into my life because I am getting bored being in charge all the goddamn time. Besides, I am never really in charge.

I was talking with a friend of mine and we were talking about how fucking drunk I get. She told me that she’s seen me drunker than she’s seen most people get–and I told her that maybe she doesn’t know too many super awesome people. And she said, “Can you guess the time you were the drunkest I’ve ever seen you?” And I said of course I could because it was when we were in Manhattan. And she says Manhattan doesn’t count because I never sobered up the entire time because I was on “holiday” and anything goes. So she tells me it was this time in February where I went to a psychic and the psychic totally ninjad my life by telling me some dude that I was into was like my “soul-mate” but it could never work–which is something I already knew, but hadn’t actualized. So I went to my favorite bar and told Bob, the bartender, you have to get me totally slaughtered tonight. I want to remember none of this. I remember none of it. Apparently, I started freaking out and threw my body into the streets and said that I wanted to die because I was a worthless liar, a madeup fabrication of myself. I was on the curb lying in the gutter mumbling insanity and then my friend took me home and washed my feet. Later on she asked me why I went to the psychic. I told her it’s cheaper than therapy and twice as quick.

I was lying in bed thinking about that as people conducted durability testing on the house I was in and I wondered if maybe I am just so goddamn diluted that these worthless thoughts I have all the time zipping in and out of my head–were really just random erroneous pieces of crap that flip in and out of my skull like the flashing light on the telephone that screams to me that I have a voicemail. So many blogs are so fucking stupid and I’m apart of this insanely boring microcosm of nothingness.

My neck hurts and I am in a bad mood. I still haven’t done my taxes. I am irresponsible. I am falling apart. I am drinking too much again–which probably doesn’t seem like an again to you since all I ever do is whine about writing and drinking. I am going home and hiding in bed for a month.

I miss you.