Worry warts

Worry

Sometimes it's not something that makes sense. Sometimes I don't even want to write but I force myself to write. Like now. Sometimes you don't feel like doing anything and that's how you get somewhere, by forcing yourself to do something. I'm not even paying attention to what I'm writing.

11:17 PM and I haven't eaten dinner. Uh oh, am I slipping into this trend again. Rhetorical questions deserve periods.

I really shouldn't have had that conversation last night. Or should I. It was redeeming for me then but not now and I know I'm fucked for tomorrow. I hope my date goes well because I'm going to be tired as shit because I need to get a shitload of work done for a shit class... and that's so that I can go on that date. At least I have the date.

I hate how - I go back to Tufts and all the guys there are suddenly hot to me. Why is this? I don't understand it. In Vancouver there weren't so many guys out there trying to be attractive and stick out, instead just trying to be chill. And I liked being that. Chill. Maybe I should try to stick out by being chill. But people here overuse that word as a compliment - he's "chill." Nobody here is chill. Nobody. They don't make sense. The date should be better, hopefully.

All I need is to get out of here and to some place that's far more chill than this college's environment. Because it's driving me nuts. When I was in Japan I was far more sane than this. In Paris, only slightly more sane. Really? How could I have been more sane in Paris than here?

More than anything I feel alone. But more for real I feel bored. Bored bored bored. The biggest enemy in life is boredom. Baudelaire talked about it. Boredom is not a drug. He claims that it is. That's bullshit. But I sure am having a hard time getting off of it.

I'm hungry for certainty. Certainty that I'm doing the right thing. Fraternity that'll teach me that I can survive on my own. Life that speaks to me, breathes to me. Music that breeds confusion that arouses my senses.

Books that I can read that can tie me up, gag me up and tell me they love me and want me. Drawings that jump out of the page and pull me in. These things are absent. These things are no more. I'm no less the victim.

I could've stayed for the entirety of the Olympics. I really wish I did. That would've made things feel complete.

I'm not an enemy of the peace. The hazy, foggy, uneasy peace is an enemy of me.

Where to go?