It's Friday. 8 hours behind a desk. 4 hours mulling around as a work hoss. Late night rages (hopefully I can stay up...) that seem like a bad idea for the ensuing 6 hours as a work hoss: hocking plates and glasses, cleaning up baby "cuteness", and pretending that everything's fine, just fine dammit. Because, I suppose, everything is fine. I mean, it's not going as planned, but maybe I'm a bad writer. The producer's rewriting it, and really, what does the author have to say in the grand scheme of a picture? It's just words, people would rather watch the movie anyways.

Oh. It's been a long day. And it's only 4:07. It's also been sort of an infuriating day. There isn't a particular reason. I just feel RAWR or like I might shake something, anything, for a prolonged period of time. Shake some sense. SENSE, damnit. Or scream into a pillow. Or claw my skin off. Or...so many options for an infuriating sort of day. Drink tequila. I think that's what I'll actually do. Drink tequila, alone.

I can feel myself going crazy. I know that I'm doing strange things, but I can't.stop.ohmygod.why.am.i.still.doing.this? Still sort of wish I could shake something, maybe punch? Eh. That seems like too much effort. Shaking, well, it feels like somethings vibrating on my insides. RAWR. If I just touch something solid, maybe it'll stop. I'm not angry. Just a little off-kilter.

4:12.

It's 4:12. I should go home. I should leave. now. get. out. go. somewhereanywherenow. I have some sort of excessive energy. Do something. But what? What would satisfy?

RAWR. RAWR. RAWR.

Maybe that's all I want to do. Scribble FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. on a piece of paper. I have several journal entries that amount to just as much. FUCK. RAWR. FUCK.

Damn. Make it stop or settle or something. Just calm the hell down.

Maybe I'm hungry. I want someone to eat with...I get so, eh, when I eat alone. I don't want to make the effort. It's all so unappealing. But I need to eat. something.

RAWR. FUCK. 4:18.

"Maybe you're a coward."

The words hit hard. A sledge hammer to the face. My mind winces, but I control my face. I'm exasperated, but I don't want to show it. I'd rather just shake it off indifferently. I only feel indifference. I've been living dead for longer than I can remember actually living.

I shrug. What use are words? I brace myself for my yelling. Loud. Strong voice of disapproval. I tell myself to find a happy place. Soon this and everything will be over. I have no reason to try to remember what happens next. It's just another memory I'm going to errand, and if I don't pay attention to it than I can't take the effort to forget it.

What's the fable about Rip van Winkle? Sleeping his life away? I keep hoping to wake up and have everything be okay again. Whatever okay might be I'm not sure...I belong in a fiction.

I don't know. Maybe I got hit on the head. Maybe I had a mini-stroke. Maybe I had a vision. I don't know what you'd call it. But I had to leave.

Get out. Now.

Warning. Warning. Will Robinson. Warning.

Staying may lead to mental deprevation. Staying may result in self multilation, hearing voices, or worse. Consult your physician. Side affects could be life threatening.

And like most chapters in my life, let's not rewrite, but let's delete. History repeats? I don't remember how it was. It's fuzzy. Pieces. I'd do anything to hammer most of it to microscopic dust. I used to do so well with history. Got an empty memory for facts, as long as it's not about me.

Clean slate. Restart. Move forward, always forward. Detox. Never saying what if.

It's another fall day, the sort that isn't so bad and looming into winter. It's crisp and perfect for wanderlust. I've been saving my chickens and trying to figure out what the next move is going to be. I want somewhere, anywhere new. Something that says starting over and second chances to do it right. How many of those have I had and nothing ever seems better?

Right now, my days are spent hating myself. Hating that I have to lock my cat up in my room because the apartment I live in is cluttered with useless items that he knocks over in his pursuit of happiness and curiosity. Materialism is alive and well. I want desperately for it to be clean lines, clean aesthetics, clean anything, really, so that he can play to his heart's content. I feel wretched each morning as I lock up my room, saying, trying to convince myself that it's just for a little while. Part of me just wants to throw every piece of the apartment over. The stupid vases, the ugly pictures, the clutter, the clutter, the mounts of useless crap, and the dust that will never go away (heaven forbid ANYONE dusts - and there's a wonder about allergies?).

It's laboring on the soul. I feel like an unwanted guest in my own apartment. I just want to leave, return to my home, my place of rest. This isn't it. The overstuffed fridge with food that will go bad. The freezer that barely closes. The stove that's never cleaned after it's used. I just want to fall off of the world for a little bit. My heart palpitates irregular when I'm at this place. It feels like a prison. And at times, I feel like the prison master, forcing my helpless animal ward into a life that he didn't ask for. I feel awful everyday I continue to live there. And I feel like a broken record for every breath that I use to say how unhappy I am. It's everything I guess, and there's no refuge in the place I live.

Blur.

It's a perfect fall day. Crisp and cool. Long sleeves and a corduroy jacket. Maybe I should have brought gloves with me. It's okay. I'll dry my hands out early this year. They already feel rough to the touch. It's the scales, I guess. The leaves are falling but the grass is still green and growing. It smells a little like burning but I can't quite place where it's coming from. Just a faint smell in the distance. I doubt anything is burning in the city, especially leaves. I'm sure that's a hazard.

It's been a mindless day. I slept through my alarm, or it didn't go off. I'm not exactly sure, but my body wasn't too happy to get up. No, no, no, it heaved as I looked at my cell phone to verify if I had any time left to lay in bed with my darling orange cat.

I left my apartment with half of my shirt untucked and my hair tangled. It didn't matter. I'm not here to impress anyone of any caliber, and definitely not anyone on the CTA. As I walked out of the underground Chicago red stop, I thought that I should leave. Where to go? That's a good question. What exactly would I accomplish by up and leaving? Some days I think that's all I've got left for options: just leave, get out, go and assume a new identity. Get away from everyone who's boxed you into that box that's so painfully sized wrong. Maybe I could brainwash myself and it'd all be okay. Just stop this, all this.

It's a perfect fall day.

I walked to my regular bus stop to find that a man listening to some sort of walkman device and talking incessantly was standing there. I appreciate the bus taking an extra long time to show up. I stood on the opposite side of the bus stop shelter, but I still feared that at any moment this not-quite-sane person was going to try to talk or touch me. And since I like neither of those things in the morning, it was a very long and chilly wait for the bus. I hoped he wouldn't get on the same bus, but alas, he did. And talked to himself the entire ride to the redline. What about, I couldn't quite makeout, but I always assume it's about the government and conspiracy theories. You know, the good stuff.

I blew out my hair this morning, and I'm quite pleased with myself. It looks rather fancy. I thought it'd be a royal pain, but surprisingly, it was easier than expected. Who knew if you followed the advice given in magazines, it might actually result in something good.

It's October, and Chicago is ushering in the month with chilly weather. I am ready for a change in season. A change in season means that I am closer to be living in my own place. It's thrilling and frightening at the same time. I'm definitely ready to be the only one that I clean up after (besides the cat), but it's also daunting all the things one needs to acquire to be a functional individual. Like kitchen stuff and laundry stuff and cleaning stuff and pantry stuff and oh, oh, oh my gosh...so much. It's okay. I will live to tackle it. I will utilize the addicting Martha Steward website and print off her bajillion checklists, and I will be okay. I'll be fine. I just want to jump right into it...right now.