October 3, 1998
Still working on a new entry. You know the drill: click here to re-live the wonder and splendor of that last entry ... which, frankly, might be a lot more entertaining than anything I come up with today (unless you happen to be into Flaming Hairdryers, Bad Eyebrow Days and/or Knife Factory Customers With HUGE Anger-Management Problems ... in which case I suggest you stay tuned.)
Later That Day ...
Chill, dark Oregon morning. Rain. A soggy crow sits in the treetops outside my window, watching me, and takes a doleful shit. ("See? This is what I think of this stoopid weather.") I am on my fourth cup of sour black coffee. My hair is still damp from my shower. New Radiant Storm Kings on the boombox ("Someone must hear you/But nobody hears you at all"). If there were any food in the kitchen, I might make myself some breakfast: as it is, I'm going to have to scrounge around and find my broken black umbrella and trudge down the crooked alley to the bus stop and go buy a few groceries, later today. (Those two sick days last week bit a HUGE hole in yesterday's paycheck: this will be another macaroni and cheese month.)
And so on and so forth and yadda yadda yadda and ad infuckingitum. The State of the Life. The Way It Is. The Way It's Always Going To Be, Apparently.Yawn.
I'm not depressed. (Much.) I'm not feeling sorry for myselves. (Much.) I'm just feeling like I'm on autopilot these days. A friend told me once that when you start losing your anger, that's when you start to move on. I wonder: is that one of the things that's happening to me now? If so, I'm not sure I'm liking this newest stage of "moving on" one whole helluva lot. The anger is gone, which is OK .... but so is most of my fire and energy and joy and passion and humor and interest in ANYTHING. I am on total emotional auto-pilot these days. Merely going through the motions. And it's a really shitty feeling, to tell you the truth. I would almost rather be hurling empty wine bottles across the dining room again: at least I was feeling something then.
The worst part is that there is a little voice inside my head, telling me that this is the way things are gonna be, from now on ... and that it's better this way. There won't be any more of those incredible emotional "peaks" ... but then again, there won't be any of those hellish "valleys," either.I'm going to look for that umbrella and do a store run. (Don't worry, Dave ... I'll steer clear of *that* aisle.) Maybe I just need to get outta The Tree House for awhile. I'll come back to this later.