contra =lite=

sometimes I feel like a hole where a person ought to be. Like I’ve never been, will never be, anything. Easy ballistics, a long flat parabolic crash, unsound and furious. I do not know whether I’m pretentious and pretending not to be able to communicate my feelings, or if that sentence is actually a thing that I think / feel / believe. I am not sure which of those options would make me more sane, which less.

I’m stupid, for a smart guy.

Useless, but incredibly functional.

Amusing yet terribly dull.

I don’t understand. I don’t know if I will ever understand. I just know that sometimes I think about being this way forever, being like my mother, her sisters, her mother, useless and frustrated and bitter and old and wasted and prone to self medication, and a steady diet of humble pie, whiskey and cigarettes doesn’t enrapture me. I go unenraptured, unenthused, unimpressed. A useless lump with dreams is arguably more despicable than your common or garden variety useless lump.

I doom myself to repeat the same by refusing to handle the new or different. I’m addicted to comfort. I bore myself, and feel trapped in that boredom.

My goal right now is just a number in the bank account. Blinkers on and sprint, deal with the world when I’m done with this. And yet I continue to think. I continue to create trouble for myself. I’m sick of it, really.

I’m going with pretentious. What a …

(didn’t sleep well last night)