functioning at 2.3G
this is a whinge alert. if you dont want to read my musings on misery, close this window.

i used to be so depressed that i had trouble participating in conversation. i just felt kind of scraped raw inside, hollowed out and wind whistling through my lungs and out through my eyes and ears. sometimes all this bile would come flowing out of me and it we be so much that i'd double up and start sobbing.

i don't feel particularly depressed anymore. i really want to go to picnics in the sunshine and to shows at dark party bars. i want to laugh and talk and dance. i wish it could happen to me.

i used to love the rain. it was great to sit outside on that couch in the carport at Decleyre or on the porch swing at Felix. we'd roll cigarettes and listen to will oldham through someone's half-opened bedroom window.

it makes my face feel swollen. pressure over my eyes. in my vertebrae, my shoulders, my knees. my bones are made of lead or something heavier. in this kind of gravity it gets hard to keep moving. i wobble when i stand still, and stumble often over my cold granite feet. there's a sort of resignation to it. i'd love to have more energy, to be lighter, and i certainly dont want to make other people be around me when i am like this.

i've become forgetful and self-centered. sometimes it's just me and the sickness no matter how many people are involved in the conversation. i think i am letting it win somehow, but i dont know how to stop. the generals of this army got lost somewhere in that first long move from menlo park to atlanta. self pity tears are my missiles. my words are nerve gas. i'm about as pleasant to be around as an armed conflict.

it is frightening to feel like this. how can the sickness be winning. i dont understand what i did for my body to feel like this.

i wish i could pay my library fines. i really just want to hole up and read today. 

we hit concrete @ 1:13 PM