My elbows hurt when I type. They rest on the desk and I feel my whole weight on them. I feel bad for them, little knobbly things, they were not made, were not trained, were not prepared for such labour.
I'm in a mood. It's amazing how conscious I am of my moods, how I dissect them like fetal pigs. It isn't so much disagreeable as it is...repulsed. 'Disgusted' , a word I employ liberally. What disgusts me? God, what DOESN'T disgust me? I hate that I am being unconsciously molded into a type, that I have been unconsciously molded into a type...I take inventory of my beliefs and I find I disagree with them. There is no one to look up to, no one to emulate, just people to protect and people you're sick of protecting and people who demand your attention but say nothing new, nothing they haven't said before in another time and another place to another set of eyes and ears that have fallen off. That's infuriating. I walk around cradling and tripping over my guts, trying to fit them, clumsily, into a crevice, into a hole with some degree of order, but I rush and they all spill out again. Disgusting. What is self-awareness without self-absorption? What is self-possession without self-obsession? Must everything be so close to the surface? Must there be so much blood?
I feel too big for this head. Sometimes I empathize with my elbows. Sometimes I think I am not made for this. And other times, I think otherwise.
-I
Do you know what I'm talking about?
Quiet, shithole, the movie's starting.
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