Crizist on a crizutch, you'd think that with the modest goals I've set for myself with this thing I'd be able to meet them, wouldn't you? And yet so far I've consistently failed to actually write five days a week in here. Three the first week (to be fair, I started on a Wednesday), three last week, and now just two this week. Oh well, at least I'm no Scott Von Doviak when it comes to updates. Ah, I'm just funnin' ya, Scott!
Anyway, I figure that today I'll inaugurate the "whiny little punk" aspect of bloggerdom here at Oily Rags, because I've just had a fuck of a lousy time lately. I've been picking fights with friends for no especially clear or good reason. I've been sleeping poorly. I've been wasting even more time than usual on petty distractions intended to keep me from exploding into violent rages. Best of all, I actually exploded into a violent rage a couple of days ago. Nice work, asshole!
So, what set me off? What occurrence could be so bad that I punched a cinderblock wall with an unprotected hand, stalked back and forth in an empty hallway for about a half hour trying to burn off adrenal overload, called the university mental health center for an emergency appointment (in the process bellowing furiously and profanely at the top of my lungs to the poor drone who was trying to set my appointment because she couldn't spell my name right), and finally picking up a seven-foot tall easel made of bolted together 2x4s and hurling it to the ground and bare-handedly bending a sheet-metal stool into (temporary) uselessness?
Why, I dropped my bag of supplies and the linseed oil bottle within broke. Yeah, that's right. I bwoke a widdle bottwe. Pretty fucking ridiculous, huh? Well, unsurprisingly, that was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I've been feeling lower and lower for days or maybe weeks or months now. And, at the risk of some of the relevant parties reading this, part of it and maybe even a major part of it is the way I feel alienated from and used by my friends. I know that it sucks to hang around a guy who's constantly broke and can't pay his own way 90% of the time - which is to say, me. And I know it's difficult to include someone who's work schedule makes him inaccessible for early evening activities five nights of the week which is me again. And I know that the fact I don't have a car and therefore must rely on buses or rides from willing acquintances to reach many places (especially at night when buses run rarely or not at all) makes it difficult to include me. What's more, it hasn't escaped my notice that since I'm a bit of a hypersensitive guy who will sometimes unpredictably overreact to percieved and perhaps purely imaginary slights I can't expect to be Mr. Popularity.
(paragraph removed because it's causing trouble, and I don't need any more of that)
Boy, when Oily Rags does self-pitying embarassing personal revelations, we do it RIGHT, huh!??
Anyway, I figure that today I'll inaugurate the "whiny little punk" aspect of bloggerdom here at Oily Rags, because I've just had a fuck of a lousy time lately. I've been picking fights with friends for no especially clear or good reason. I've been sleeping poorly. I've been wasting even more time than usual on petty distractions intended to keep me from exploding into violent rages. Best of all, I actually exploded into a violent rage a couple of days ago. Nice work, asshole!
So, what set me off? What occurrence could be so bad that I punched a cinderblock wall with an unprotected hand, stalked back and forth in an empty hallway for about a half hour trying to burn off adrenal overload, called the university mental health center for an emergency appointment (in the process bellowing furiously and profanely at the top of my lungs to the poor drone who was trying to set my appointment because she couldn't spell my name right), and finally picking up a seven-foot tall easel made of bolted together 2x4s and hurling it to the ground and bare-handedly bending a sheet-metal stool into (temporary) uselessness?
Why, I dropped my bag of supplies and the linseed oil bottle within broke. Yeah, that's right. I bwoke a widdle bottwe. Pretty fucking ridiculous, huh? Well, unsurprisingly, that was just the straw that broke the camel's back. I've been feeling lower and lower for days or maybe weeks or months now. And, at the risk of some of the relevant parties reading this, part of it and maybe even a major part of it is the way I feel alienated from and used by my friends. I know that it sucks to hang around a guy who's constantly broke and can't pay his own way 90% of the time - which is to say, me. And I know it's difficult to include someone who's work schedule makes him inaccessible for early evening activities five nights of the week which is me again. And I know that the fact I don't have a car and therefore must rely on buses or rides from willing acquintances to reach many places (especially at night when buses run rarely or not at all) makes it difficult to include me. What's more, it hasn't escaped my notice that since I'm a bit of a hypersensitive guy who will sometimes unpredictably overreact to percieved and perhaps purely imaginary slights I can't expect to be Mr. Popularity.
(paragraph removed because it's causing trouble, and I don't need any more of that)
Boy, when Oily Rags does self-pitying embarassing personal revelations, we do it RIGHT, huh!??
posted by Austin at 1:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home