I spent $40 on toilet paper today. That’s the kind of information I’m supposed to write about, right? The transmogrification – to borrow a term coined by a writer of actual merit – of the mundane into the meaningful. I spent $40 on toilet paper, and I did it because I thought I would be saving money. Who the fuck is going to go through $40 of toilet paper in a time-effective manner? Where am I going to put it all? In the bathroom, next to the toilet seat? That’s absurd. That’s where it’s sitting right now. I can tell you that for certain, because I’m sitting on the toilet as I write this. It’s pretty fucking absurd.
I’m writing this on the toilet because the alternative is writing in bed. Which is something that I always mean to do and don’t. There comes a point in the evening where it comes down to three things: play video games with Sofia, have sex with Sofia, write, or go to sleep. Four things. Not the three things I originally mentioned. Send your complains to @jghartisabadperson. Every time, one of the other three options wins out. I never prioritize my sleep in the hours leading up to an exhausted passing-out. I never give a shit about that until it’s juxtaposed with the alternative of writing, in which case it takes precedent. After all, I need to take care of myself. What the fuck am I even going to write about? Toilet paper placement?
I haven’t had a goddamn thing to write about. I’ve been drifting. I’ve been zombified at work. A yes-man of the highest order. I commiserate, I vent, I am vented to, and I play RuneScape. Today, I sat and played Pokemon for about 2 and a half hours sitting at my desk. That raises the obvious question of “what are you doing with your life?” The answer, as far as I can tell, is ‘sleeping through life until something interesting happens.’ I’m not the one making things interesting, either. If Sofia wasn’t present, who knows how long this shit would go on. Probably until some kind of major mental break or suicide attempt, I think. That’s the real shit. I suspect if I wasn’t getting second-hand enthusiasm for life from my life partner, I would be suicidal. I’m bad at every form of art I am interested in. I am bad at music. Not for lack of passion, but for lack of practice. I am bad at writing. Not for lack of practice, but for lack of passion. I’m bad at photography because I have nothing that seems worth photographing. I know even the most mundane setting can be made compelling by seeing through the lens of the photographer with a vision. I’m not that photographer, and I don’t have that vision. Every time I refrain from journaling like this and then pick it up, it turns into this gangrenous – my favorite word-of-the-day – rant session of poor-me-isms.
Fia got her job back at Staples. She’s doing more closing shifts, which is leaving me alone at night. I wait for her to get back home so I can deliver my latest half-failed cooking creations. Otherwise, I sit and jerk off or watch the same Youtube videos I’ve already seen on repeat. What else is there to do, anyway? The alternative is playing games, which gets old, or making some attempt at a piece of art. Then it becomes the snake eating itself. The ouroboros. Why do anything, when all of what I do results in something that wasn’t worth doing in the first place? So do nothing, because why do anything. All of it sucks. All of it is bad. Some altruistic young entrepreneur would – and did, recently – tell me that the act in of itself is the success. Real easy to say when you’ve got a sense of momentum to absolutely anything in your life. I am waiting at the train station, sitting and waiting for that train to take me away. Fairly sure that’s a Hendrix lyric. What am I, 15 again? Writing poems about listening to the rain and Hendrix’ blues albums.
I have so many little threads I could pull on, but each one of them unravels at the tapestry of my own delusion. Writing, filming, and editing a VR short film. I’ve got the camera rig. Making use of the samples I keep recording to put together a song. Maybe even doing vocals. Doing something with all these photos I’ve been taking lately. Writing more about mental health in the format of a story worth telling. Each time I sit down at them and make an attempt, I feel like output sucks. I don’t know if that means I need to pare down or bolster. Cut time. Eliminate distractions. God knows I’ll take them. It becomes fucking paramount that I advance in Pokemon far enough to transfer my 14-year-old Pokemon off of my original game cart from when I was 9. Or play more Red Dead Redemption. At least I started running again – but then I injured my foot, and I’ve been nursing that since last Thursday. Seems as though every attempt I make at bettering myself is shot down in some way or another.
This is formless, idle bitching. Today, I stopped myself as I was bitching to Sofia about shit. I was annoyed and feeling sick and shitty at work. I stopped mid-text string and said “yeah, and bitching is not helping anyone.” To myself – to her. I bet that was real pleasant for her. But that trueism “complaining about a headache just makes everyone who can hear you feel worse and your headache doesn’t get better.” Something like that. That’s why I need to journal more. That’s why I need to go back and see a fucking therapist.
Maybe that’ll help. Saying ‘yes’ to things like that. I thought I was done, but I’m not. It’s not done yet, how do you like it so far? All this is for me is mastubatory echo chambering anyway, so, for the record, I like it great.
Fia and I were walking down the street in Gainesville. It was a sort of somber Sunday evening, with delicate jazz notes floating through the air from some tucked-away backyard garden party.
Fuck it. I’m not going to tell that story to myself. I know what happened. Fuck you.