Happiness Is A Warm Gun

 I can still smell the letter. It’s in my desk drawer. It smells homely. Warm. I haven’t really thought of the end result today. I’ve drowned myself in my guitar coming up with songs. My fingers hurt. It’s the only pain I want to experience right now–physical. My moods change often. I feel apathetic. It’s possibly still the dissociation. The angriest music I could find was The Breeders. It’s not really angry. I suppose Garbage would be a better choice, but I feel as if I’m stuck in the early ’90s, so it’ll have to do. I don’t know what to do with the letter. I could keep it. Just another useless memento kept in a box full of other useless things from my past. 

I don’t know what I want. I don’t really want anything right now. I just want to be alone. I want to listen to music and write shit. I don’t want to think about the outside world. I don’t want to be apart of it. I’m already stressing about the coming semester. I have to live in a dorm, sharing a bathroom with seven other people. I have to have a roommate. Someone I’ve never met before. I have to do performances. Memorize shit. More stress. More cutting probably. More break downs. Every day I wake up I dread what’s coming. 

I don’t want to think about everything that’s happened this year. I’m supposed to just deal and move forward. Keep hurling shit at me. I know the semester will be good. I know it’ll be fun. It’s just the setting up part that I dread. Having to get into routine. Changing my ways. I know I can’t hide forever. That’s fine. I’ll make the best of it and write. Write the shit out of things. Maybe vlog. Play music. I don’t know.

I know I’m better off. I know I’ll find someone and all that shit. I think I just want something good to happen for a change. That’s all. I want to feel happy about something. Sex would be nice. Some type of close intimacy. Just a hand hold. I don’t know. 

One of these days something good will happen. And I’ll be ready. I’ll break out the champagne and everything.