Good morning. Today is Friday, and I’m here freshly caffeinated but needing more, in velour leopard print pants and a not matching fleece leopard print shawl. I’m sniffling and sniveling because I just finished Mr. Robot and I am fucked up, man.
No spoilers, I couldn’t explain that fucking show if I tried, you just have to watch it yourself or talk to me about it if you have. Except, I can say for certainty that Mr. Christian Slater has aged like a fine, fine ass wine. My god, that man… is there anything he’s not awesome in? Also, BD fucking Wong – dude was amazing in all iterations of Parks Jurassic, this was next level. Superhuman fucking acting, writing, everything.
That got me thinking how everyone I fan girl about, they all have whatever junk in their trunk, and they just … make it into something better. Turn their shit into gold. It’s like, literal alchemy. Whether it is [insert artist name here] or [insert masterpiece here], some deeply flawed human took whatever parts of them and made it better, made it work for them, took their nightmares and made that bitch make their dreams come true instead, maybe helping others with their healing. But…how?
It’s the sand in the oyster that makes a pearl necklace, and every other frigging cliche I know. I fucking know, but what do I do? I’ll tell you, I sit in my mismatched leopard prints and cry about shit. I have lots of panic attacks. I stop and start constantly. I lash out irrationally. I live in between suffocating waves of terror that I am fucking everybody up around me. I get lost for large chunks of precious time wishing I was dead or something. Not dead just not, this. I do lots of other shit too, but far be it me to say anything remotely chipper about myself unless I’m attempting to be normal climb out of whatever pit of despair I poured in my coffee mug. Say it with me
Occasionally, I also take breaks unscheduled vacations from this reality and create my own, apparently. Then, I spend months trying to balance accounts between the two and cobble together a functioning version of me. I’ve called it the goo stage, but man it’s just … I’m so tired of me. I am way more interesting than misery, I think.
And I don’t know, bc I can’t seem to change these fucking problems. This whole week has been realizing all my knowing ain’t doing shit, all my trying ain’t doing shit, nothing ain’t doing shit. I just keep trying to think my way out of so many problems I think I have. Knowing and doing are such different things, and on and on.
It’s like, the easiest rule to follow is that if it smells like shit everywhere, check your shoe.
And I don’t understand why these simplicities are so easily lost.
In all of it, I realized that it’s always fucking grammar that gets in the way of thinking logically. What is the difference of fucking up, fucked up, and fuck up?
I guess I keep waiting for this light switch moment to happen, but it’s always more like stargazing. And there’s no finite point of anything. Everything is constantly happening.
And I think so many terms gum everything up. There is no recovery. There is recovering. There’s no healed, there’s healing. Everything is ongoing, unfolding. There’s no enlightenment, it’s enlightening. No awakened. Awakening. Hell, there’s no writer, it’s just writing.
Like, why is -ing so freaking important? Suffering… now if only that one had an -ED, eyyyy? Eyyy? I’m sorry that was terrible. But suffering could become suffered, it’s just a question of something that is an ongoing impermanent process of letting go and accepting. This is a process that I, for one, keep attempting to cure perfectionism with new and exciting forms of perfectionism. And assorted whatnots!
In my case, I don’t write bc I’m not successful and everything I write is pure trash. I write on here bc I delude myself into thinking I’ve done something, or I write in my journal to say I’ve done something. Except, that’s actually called practice and if you practice something enough, you can get pretty dang good at it. I’ve written since I was a child, so I bet I could be pretty dang good at it if I would stop being a fucking asshole to myself every once in awhile. I. Just. Don’t. Know. What. I’m. Doing. And I feel like I’m supposed to, and maybe I’m just not. Occasionally, when I stop fighting with myself, shit can get interesting, but it also can get scary and I’d love to know how to fuck a blender without actually fucking myself up.
here, I wrote something today. Watts said to write whatever shit is on your mind bc someone else could see that shit and it makes them feel better. He said to just keep doing the shit you love and eventually you’ll master it. That is a crude paraphrase. Whatever. You never know what happens when you make something. Someone could, perhaps, watch a show and have an emotional collapse that has been getting pinned for 6+ months counting and maybe a fucking breakthrough cause we all know no pain no gain. So much shit on the arts, even tho it’s like… why the fuck else are we here and what the fuck else are we supposed to do with this shit? I guess the question and the answer are one in the same?
That is all I got for now, thanks for joining me in my ramblings.
Mr. Roboto https://youtu.be/uc6f_2nPSX8
Mah Butt Itches 