Home Sweet Unattainable Home

Four walls, a roof, and maybe one of those islands some people have in their kitchen to rest their chicken on at dinner.

Why not me?
Oh, right, because I live in Southern Nevada - booming house market capital del mundo. Not to mention the fact that I make sub-$10 an hour and spend my leftover cash on thousand dollar cameras and laptops.

But god how I want a house, so much that I'm crawling through my skin in this little second story condo... tiptoeing around to appease the old bastard waiting to die below us.

I may have to settle for Hender-hole and leave this beautiful town behind.

Bust out that nice white jacket.

Time: One and a half hours after I left work with nothing to show for it.
Biologically processing: The sweet, sweet jive of aspartame and phosphoric acid they call Diet Dr. Pepper.
Feeling: Homicidal and happy - the joint product of working and being done with working.
Surprised by: The absurd numbers of Vegas tourists clogging my roadways this day after Thanksgiving.
Slowly realizing: I need a shrink. Oh Lord, how I need a shrink.
Suppressing: Violence, disappointment, anger at things that should be over and done with, and my appetite for vengeance.
Glasgow the Cat says: hnnnnnnnnnnnnnnmbbbbbaa
Putting off: Cleaning this wreck of a house because I don't much feel like it, and damnit, what am I - the freaking maid around here? Why do I always have to do all this shit? Huh? HUH? ...Ahem.
Favorite sandwich of the month: Chicken salad sandwich. Oh. Drool.
Next stop at the grocery store: Cat food. Definitely. Before they kill me.
Hearing: Some crapass Radiohead post OK Computer. You know, after they lost all their talent and became pretentious art rock bastards.
Switching to: Rilo Kiley discussing "the slow fade of love" because it hurts and it's honest and I love that.

"He said if livin' is the problem, well that's just baffling."
Rilo Kiley - A Man/Me/Then Jim

On a break.

Hiatus during reconstruction.
Have a happy Thanksgiving.
Will be updating the photo blog.

hell.

Did I ever tell you that I killed my eight ball?

Magical or not, into the trash it went. Was it during a move? A bout of boredom? An angry night of memory disposal? I don't remember. But it's gone and I have no wisdom to turn to.

To read the old me, it's as though she walked away, just stuffed her old high school backpack with MEMO books and left.

Since then, I've felt nothing and numb and then empty and sad. I'm offering a reconciliation. I want another chance.

I've got some DDP in the fridge and paper enough to spare... that is, if she and her erasable pens still want me.

She's a sparkler, a winter walk, an unrelenting creation of drama and life. And I want her back, in a way that makes my soul clinch around the empty space she once filled. I want her back. I want her back.

A humbling sense of desperation washes over you as you sob uncontrollably before an audience of two stoic cats. You get the sense that they think you’re performing a single-lined play over and over for them, and frankly, it’s getting boring. I find myself, another Saturday night, awash with stifling solitude and self-loathing. I’m yet again the most uninteresting person in the world.

You were once made of metal, shining and cold, and a fuck off to those who would bend you. But what are you now? What are you now?
A warm little mess of abandoned blood.

There's so much screaming and sobbing and hair-pulling and anger
in my head. I can't say anything about here.

I feel trapped. I need a new outlet.
I need a new me.
I hate this one.