Tag Archives: writing

Not dead just mad

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I have a very hard time dealing with the world. I thought by 31 I’d have this shit figured out. I’m an adult now, time to get with the program, right?

How am I suppose to pretend everything is normal and fine? I’m walking a tightrope over flames every day and the ringmaster is calling for me to jump through the flames but I’m scared as fuck and actually forgot something in my dressing room so I’m just gonna go real quick.

I don’t know what I’m suppose to do anymore. I’m angry constantly. It’s a simmering pot of shit in the bottom of my gut and it’s constantly flowing over. It makes me dark. I feel like the color drains from my world. It’s just anger and sadness competing for space.

This isn’t normal, right? Like my parents and my parents parents definitely didn’t just live life with this as if it’s normal and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it, right?

Or did we all get free tickets for this bullshit ride. It’s already covered in vomit and sucks, I want off.

I feel like I’m being a bad friend, a bad partner, a bad colleague, a bad brother constantly. It’s so hard to sort my anger at the cosmos into the right little bucket at the right time. It’s been boiling for a while but it’s finally boiling over and that burnt and nasty liquid is fusing to the side of my pot and I’m still desperately stirring because I gotta serve something for dinner and everyone’s at the table waiting and oh fuck I just realized I’m out of salt.

I tried to do a “new year, new me”. I tried to strip this weird uncomfortable skin off my soul and slide into something different. It’s not working but I think that’s because the issues are more than skin deep.

I don’t know what to do. I’m tired so fucking tired. I went black on Facebook and removed the devil app from my phone, but I can’t kick my other social media IVs. Not sure I want to.

I’ve been freaked out about legacy lately. It’s fucking stupid but I feel like there’s no permanent and real photos of me at this point of my life and that freaks me out. If I died tomorrow and my social media is cancelled – how are all my fans going to remember me? That’s so dumb but my brain is constantly floating between “fuck you and your dumb ego” and “well if you ever have great grandkids they’ll love this shit” which they probably won’t cause they’ll be too busy with VR FB and like I dunno jacking off to horny teens from Mars.

The Twisting of a Vice

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Lately, I’ve had more time to get lost in my own mind. I travel down the dark pathways between synapses, watch neuron storms flash across the horizon, and stare into the void spreading in the shadowed corners of my skull.

All this time home and thinking has forced me to reconcile with my own depression and constant feeling of helplessness. I’m always so mad, and frustrated, and floundering, and all at things I can’t do anything about. I attempt to turn off politics, I try and lose myself in entertainment or crafts, I seek out social situations to keep my brain focused on the next words spilling out, rather then the thoughts not given voice.

It feels like I’m a music box, sometimes. I get spun up and appear to the world as happy and carefree and clever, all while an exciting tune hums along as I make my motions across the day. Eventually, the music stops, and when it does I find myself alone and struggling to get myself spinning again.

What frustrates me the most is I know that others have it worse than me. I know others have it so bad they can’t even get out of bed. So bad they forget to eat or shower. So bad they’d rather end it all rather than try and spin again. I don’t have it that bad though, I’m lost somewhere between the two worlds, feeling awful and useless and sad but never being able to put it into words or explain to my partner why he feels like somethings off or that I’m mad.

Writing it all out feels good. It’s like I’m channeling some energy into the Vice currently crushing my skill, begging it to let up for just a little and allow me to hear the tune from my music box instead of the screaming of the void surrounding me.

Sourdough Sunday

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Lately, I’ve had a weekly ritual of spending a few hours each weekend perfecting a sourdough bread recipe. There’s something magical about mixing together flour and water, carefully nurturing good bacteria, and measuring your success with the perfect air bubbles inside a rich fresh bread loaf.

I named my starter Doughvid, honoring both my love of awful puns and the insane times he was born within. I’ve been so happy to see how he’s grown and evolved, and I feel like my bread’s taste has grown in complexity every week.

I currently use the following measurement for my dough, though I still fine-tune and experiment every week:

6 oz white flour

5 oz wheat flour

7 oz water

1 oz starter

1/2 tbs salt