THE WRITER MUST EAT -> patreon.com/trn1ty <-
blah!
ideas with no tangibility;
ideas with irrelevant supports;
ideas without value;
ideas' witlessness;
ideas' witnesses;
ideas-
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2024-03-21
I want to explain what I mean by what I say when I say how I used to live in a
place that was unliveable. It felt fucking fast and it was always night. I
borrowed (took) a cigarette from my manager and kicked off on my Razor A5 from
my workplace, a Burger King on a slope steep enough to get me to a pretty good
speed by the time I made it to the light, always red. I didn't look both ways
because I didn't care - and when I mean I didn't care I mean once I made it
past the stretch after Aaron's I was rolling down Lisbon St. fast enough for
the wind to sting my eyes, catching them behind my glasses, fast enough to go
on the road where I would usually be going faster than the cars, without a
helmet or padding besides a thick jacket and thick pants. My headphones would
be loud as hell and usually playing something hard and metal like Grazhdanskaya
Oborona or early Bring Me the Horizon. The moon in the sky - and if it was full
shit would usually hit the fan - and by hit the fan I mean in the light the
junkies would be shooting up and the crackheads would be smoking and by the
time you met them you wouldn't see the pipe but the pulled back skin on their
faces, tight against their bone, grimacing in an uncanny expression of
desensitization, looking for their next score - and by score I mean money or
someone with it - me - which would be trouble if my scooter was around 7-Eleven
where I found the junkies usually going fast enough that nobody bothered. But
one time I was on my way back when someone stopped me asking where they could
go to stay - they looked friendly so I stopped - and I replied I was just
squatting somewhere - and as I left they spoke to someone in a van who started
tailing me and I had to run off the tail. This was in July? In September I
didn't even have that squat but instead Toni. I went from work to Hell to sleep
to work. I would wake with dew on my cheek - not dew - condensation - from my
breath, because the battery was too far gone to wake enough to roll down the
windows, and I didn't have the key anyway - I got in through a hole in the
back.
When I say fast I mean I was running all the time and I wasn't allowed where I
was sleeping except sorta de facto. The world blurred around me. My co-workers
respected me for being probably the fastest one in the kitchen and the
employees of the place where I was sleeping loved me for always being happy to
help someone out. At night on my way to the car I would pass by this building
with full length windows on the ground floor and I would look into the mirror
at what I had become. I was wearing a black Rothco M-65, Doc Martens, work
pants (I can't remember how to spell Carhart (sic?)), a black hat, black
gloves, a black UV-5R to read counties - I was dressed like a vigilante,
sleeping like a cowboy, working like a mule. I was lying to those who could
house me, saying I was housed, because I knew my options were fucked. I didn't
believe I would survive - I wrote my life off and lived like it didn't matter
if I died - lived like I couldn't die - lived like I wanted to die - it wasn't
really living, was it? - or was it living more than I had ever before? - I was
sloppy. Remember Case in the first couple chapters of Neuromancer? It was a
constant, chronic state of mania trying to separate enough from the city that I
could leave without spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. But
I still do. When I say fast I mean I had a clock that was ticking - two. I had
the clock until my Greyhound arrived at Bates College and I had the clock until
it was too cold to sleep in the car even in my sleeping bag and I didn't wake
up. And I didn't think leaving would really help - I didn't think leaving would
get me to a place where I could start living. [...] told me they'd "put me up"
which to me meant little because I had no clue how to get an apartment or
anything. I planned to sleep in a hostel or outside or die here. I just didn't
wanna die in Bumfuck Nowhere Maine.
I think my last couple relationships were, in hindsight, fucking awful, in
general and for me specifically. I feel like I experienced at once both sides
of a bad time. I refrain from discussing relationship stuff on here because
people read this who actually know me and of whom I write but it's jarring to
me just how awful all of my romantic relationships have been - all of them.
Often the biggest issue is how paralyzed I am - I sacrifice my own desires for
trying to maintain comfort. I don't take risks in relationships. I would
probably be fine at maintaining a Good Thing but getting to a Good Thing is
impossible because I don't communicate what I want for fear of being judged for
it. This is a problem not just in my romantic relationships but generally in my
life. Related is the fact that I don't communicate my discomfort.
2024-03-19
: replies to my post on watchpeopledie.tv
ChazzMichaelMichaels: you're a fucking weird guy, you know that.
like what the fuck is wrong with you?
Certifiedsnowflake: okay dude, what the actual flip
cutethighscars: i have a foot fetish and im a strong enough woman to
admit it. that being said; The fuck kind of crossbreeding
of kinks is this?
natsuki_: this is for your fetish, isn't it ?
VermiciousKnid: You're sick
Snappy: :#marseyfinger:
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