I mean, is there any particular reason why I just can't let myself be happy? Huh?
Christ, things have been great the past couple years, and one stupid fucking thing pops up, and I can't get it out of my head, and it's driving me fucking nuts.
And I can't even blog about the fucking thing! Imagine that! Me: the guy who posts the most personal of personal shit can't fucking blog about why he's so fucking miserable.
Fuck, why am I miserable? Is it an actual valid reason? Or is it just something my fucking brain dreamt up and is taunting me with?
Maybe Acrobat is just getting too far underneath my skin?
I don't fucking know . . .
I do know that this is the first time since college that I've really felt like I need a therapist. I do know that I can't fucking afford it.
Fuck.
Just . . . fuck . . . you know?
Ugh, I feel like an emotional, guilt-ridden, jealousy-shrouded, insecure, hormonal roller coaster. Every other fucking day it's up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down. Hell it's even up/down at different points of the day.
Well, maybe not up/down. More like numb/down . . .
Haha, I'm in a play about suicide, and it's the first time in 3 years the thought has flittered across my mind. No, not seriously . . . I mean, I'm not stupid . . . Numb is better than down, and I feel like I'm numb at least as often as I'm down . . .
Ohhhh, fucking hell . . .
Weee, look at this! 2 depressing angst-filled posts in a row! God, it's like college all over again. Have I really regressed that far? Have the past 3 years taught me nothing? Has all the hell of college taught me nothing?
Evidently-fucking-not, if I'm having the same fucking emotional complications, just in different surroundings.
Fucking HELL . . .
I got really super, stupid drunk at a cast party the other weekend. He asked why I wasn't drinking, told me to make myself a drink, so I did. I fucking did. I drank so much that half an hour later, I was on the bathroom floor, feeling like I was dying. Seriously. I felt so horrible. And the one fucking thing going through my head was, "God, don't let me die. I don't want to die." Well, that and, "God, don't make me puke any more, it hurts".
But really, would it have been all that bad? Really?
Fuck, I don't know. I hate thinking. I fucking HATE thinking. Why can't it just stop? Why can't I just turn off my fucking 2nd-guessing brain and forget about all this shit and stop fucking myself over when I'm fucking happy.
Just let me be fucking happy! Why can't you ever just let me be fucking content!? Huh!?
I don't need everything. I should just be happy with what I have. I don't need anything else. Needing more makes me a fucking asshole, and I can't live with myself if I'm a fucking asshole.
I won't do it . . . I won't . . .
. . .
But it's going to happen anyway, isn't it? I'm just so sick of . . . of . . . fuck, I don't know. This. I'm sick of this. I can't keep going on like this. Something needs to fucking change and it needs to fucking change real fucking fast.
I have to work tomorrow. I have to get up early and sacrifice sleep so that I can stand around the lab and be bored out of my mind. Then go do a show that I love performing in, but it's seriously twisting my psyche out of all recognition . . .
Fuck, I shouldn't be blogging. This is fucking stupid. I should delete this whole fucking thing . . .
But i'm not. Because I'm an idiot. And I'm weak. And I'm pathetic.
