and by we, i mean me, of course.

no capitalization in this journal post! punctuation is key but capitalization is Abaddon.

i get real foggy headed sometimes, but i don’t realize it until i come to hours later and wonder what exactly it was that i was thinking that made thinking ok.

because it didn’t get enough action in my twitter and i feel like it would make a small great part of some sort of youtube sketch:

BRAD: How is Arizona?

JASON (on the phone, from Arizona): I stole condoms and Hoodia.

BRAD: Wha-Why?

JASON: Well my mom only gave me $15, so I’m going to take the Hoodia so that I can surpress my appetite.

BRAD: That’s the road to addiction, my friend.

JASON: No, no, I’m just taking the hoodia so that I can buy more beer, you know.

BRAD: Awww, Jay, it’s almost cute.

i’m at home. i did some work for the boss man a day late. i don’t have anything else to do now, but listen to local h and think about all the things i don’t want to think about.

i’m a kierkegaard, i decided it well over a year ago, that i was cursed to a relationship free fate. too intolerable to love but it’s impossible to not long. here i am, a year later, probably about a year since i gave up my moratorium on relationships, only more certain than ever that i am in no way ready or capable to have a relationship with someone.

maybe i’m beating myself up. sarah and i got a long fine in person, after a few initial hiccups in our early meetings, perhaps beautifully even. all the mistakes and bad things happened while we were far away from each other. who’s to say that had we lived next door to each other, things might have been different? or maybe they wouldn’t have happened at all. i don’t know. who’s to say that i would have been able to maintain my decency for much past a week with her? i’m not a bad guy, so i don’t know what i would do, but familiarity breeds contempt, and proximity only increases the desire for solitude. who’s to say anything, anything at all.

last night i realized that i was a fool for trying to figure out whether the life that i live here is as bad as sarah makes it out to be, or whether sarah is as bad as she makes me feel about my life. i came away from the end of the night — with burnt hair and wounded feelings and no MEDICINE FOR MY DYSFUNCTION — reasonably certain that i was a fool for finally coming around to the conclusion that sarah is a twat for judging my life. no, no, she just judges it the same way i used to, but i’ve become so apathetic (as if stoned into submission) about my status that it doesn’t really matter.

people who don’t even think i’m a decent person compliment me, right. brad, you’re making a good go at making money without actually having a job (way better than anyone else we know who is jobless and subsists off their parents), and you bring people together, and you’re reasonable when it comes to situations that are not your own. so, then, hmm.

last night i had the distinct feeling that i understood what hell is. i mean, what it has to be, and it has to be last night sitting in front of the fire wordlessly with friend who set my hair on fire and friend who is occasionally contemptible (this swamp donkey he is banging out of desperation left him her only $10 for marijuana so that she wouldn’t spend it while she looked for another $10 so she could buy a sack, and he, without thinking or caring, decides that he can spend it on food if necessary and ’she ain’t going to say shit’ and i felt bad for helping get rid of her earlier when she was hanging around with no place else to go but home. poor fat ugly girl, but you’ll learn some day or you never will) and i felt a little like, yes, this is what will happen when i die: i will be sent to whittier, stuck at 23, stuck doing nothing but depersonalizing all day so i don’t have to wake up and realize i am floundering. sometimes you can’t get far enough away and all you can do is flounder. sometimes all you do is flounder.

by you, i mean me, of course.