Some kind of strange hormonal phenomena is taking it's toll on me. I have no real grasp, anymore, of how much, and only Zack and Casey have been privy to my initial guesses.

My desire to write is depleted. My desire to leave the house is depleted. My desire to do anything sexual is depleted. My tolerance for stupid people and bitchy comments is depleted. My avoidance of redundant word usage is depleted.

Lately, it's been up and down, and I used all my up today getting through work-- Yes, I am officially back at Burger King-- without some kind of felony.

The only person around to blame is generally Zack, and, in lieu of that, I've been thinking that I'm experiencing some sort of severe chemical problem. At current, though, I'm thinking maybe it is the former-- just in a less negative way than I've thought. Maybe the lack of alone time, time spent getting in touch with my anger and sadness and all the rest of those bullshit words, while listening to depressing music and going for long, meditative walks is finally catching up with me. Maybe that's why all my insecurities have been blurting out lately-- they haven't had anywhere else to go.

Even if that's not it, it'd be nice to convince myself. Lately, it's not the right answer that counts as much as the answer that will get me through the day. All these little vices and mistakes that seem to be coming together all at once: the wall isn't falling out brick by brick, it's just suddenly crumbled.

The effects of which are daunting and disorienting. Everything becomes obfuscated-- I am without the slightest direction as to what I want, what I have, where I am, where I'm going, what should be done, what needs to stop. I find myself dreaming of nightmares and wallowing in pleasure. Writing clichéd bullshit like that and being equally divided by the adolescent remnants that find it impressive and the....still more adolescent remnants that find it disgusting. Or, rather, not really writing at all. Neglecting the blog, the journal, the scraps of poetry that fester inside my mind, the dying instinct to talk to people about my problems. I've decided that anything that happens as a result of my onslaught of desperation and stupidity happens all the way-- I don't want rescue this time. I'm in or I'm out.

And I'm taken back to Casey, on my porch prom-night-morning, pressing his forehead to mine and telling me not to do the melodramatic shit that I've almost been driven to. His arms are around me and I remember what it's like to be reminded that someone cares, remember why I used to wear this inner darkness on my sleeve, so someone like him could hold me and tell me they don't want me to fuck myself up, someone like him could play the knight in shining armor suddenly, suprisingly. I've been trying, in the past few days, to communicate to Zack how much prom night with Casey fucked us both up. Nothing happened, as I swore up and down it wouldn't, but the fake-romance gave way to lingering feelings-- I wonder if Casey would object to my publicizing this, maybe I'd better save it as a draft until I can talk to him-- and now the fogginess of boundaries has gotten to us both. Neither of us really seem the more logical any longer.

EL proms do that.

"The only way to fix it is to wash it all away
Any fucking time, any fucking day
Learn to swim, I'll see you down in Arizona bay."

Tool will provide a brand-new asset if I am to get back into the spirit of introspective, hateful alone time. And I originally started that sentence "Tool will provide a brand-new tool...". Fuck me.

Maynard's lyrical prowess-- why the fuck do I always always group the words "lyrical" and "prowess" together?-- and the incredible range of emotion in his voice have me captivated as of late. I feel almost as drawn to him as I did to the lead singer of Godsmack at the concert last week: if you haven't heard about it, then you're fucking not listening, because I couldn't believe it if there was anyone who was there who was able to talk about anything else for days later. I walked in with nothing but apathy towards Godsmack, but I walked out changed forever. Ah, man. Could I have written that whole paragraph any worse?

My inability to write with the same style and flare I've demonstrated previously has me frustrated, as does almost everything as of late, but I am looking out the window now, and the sun is setting and the golden light from the west contrasted so deeply with the eastern shadow on the branches of a tree out front stops me, as it always seems to. I will not ever lose my profound respect for the aesthetic beauty that spreads through my sight and infects my mind, despite it's best attempts to hate everything I can see. I will not ever do the things that Casey asked me not to do, because I'll never stop thinking how his forehead felt pressed against mine when he asked me not to, I'll never stop knowing how incredible people like him are when there faces are that close to mine, or wanting to understand them when they're too far away.

No matter how foggy things get, the sun always sets in the west.*

On with it.


*Information curteousy of Nick Laverty, who often fills in my lapses of general knowledge.