ihavebeenfloated

Driving to Matt’s house.

I was filled with this sudden and somewhat magical feeling of relief toward the end of Blonde Redhead’s Publisher. My day went well, I solved all my problems and had a really good day at school.

I told Becca everything I couldn’t. Everything is real, everything is as it was, and nothing has changed yet again, no matter how hard my subconscious tries to cause unsolvable problems. My constant inclinations toward torment will have to go unsatiated for a while. At least until I can find some new way to fuck up some other aspect of my life. I think this one is going to stay fixed, and that is a great relief.

I’m writing regularly again, as if you couldn’t tell. Matt fed me a lot of wondrous compliments about my writing, after a beer and some good entertainment from my friends. He told me he’d ‘sponsor’ me, in the Bukowski sense, where if I wanted to buckle down and seriously write, he would cover my expenses until I churned something out. What a fucking compliment that is, right?

I’ve surprised myself a lot today. My interactions with others have been almost consistently orchestrated to perfection. There are days when I feel as if I have botched every conversation, wasted every opportunity for a witty response or clever anecdote. Today, however, I nailed every sentence, every word. Not sure if I really did or not, but damn I felt on top of my game.

This post has been in the making for two and a half hours.

Hello to Becca’s sixteen year old wannabe punk brother, who decided it’d be funny to leave snotty comments on my site. God, I remember when I was a sixteen year old boy running around on the internet being mean to people. I was an intolerable little shit… But damn, I knew how to write up some good vitriol. Shame about Eric, though. I guess we can’t all be as intelligent, clever, witty, sarcastic, or just all around smart & awesome as I was when I was his age. The kid’s graduated high school before everyone else, even me—as I didn’t ever graduate—and his conversational style consists largely of three words: man, dude, and fuck. I gotta admit, Eric will make one helluva dude when he finally decides to act like something more than a spoiled child.

But I know how it is, when you’re your mother’s little boy, her baby, you tend to think it’s OK to do whatever you want, whenever you want it, to whoever you want to. I was there, I grew out of it. Here’s hoping Eric will. But, then again, when I was sixteen I had (willingly, in a way) moved out of my parents house… and into a really crappy situation, and then followed up the next four years with even more crappy situations. Those sorts of things change you, which is why when Matt said, “Brad lost his soul,” in response to something I said to someone at the party I had Friday night—I am so cool, having parties—I wasn’t offended, but I didn’t have much to say in reply to it. It was only a day later that I realized my response should have been, “Lost? Fuck that, bitch, I had to give it up so that I could survive in the wild.”