Entries from my journal, used from 2020 to 2024. Staying true to my approximate formatting and writing style, including puncuation, capitalization, etc.
i want to be a penpal so bad. seeing kafka's letters and atticus joke about only being reachable by letter all makes me so warm, gets me longing. i'd like to only really be accessibly by landline, email, and letter. of course physical occurances, too. i want to go to a punk show, god, i can't wait for maine. quarantine will be lifted, i'll be independent (save for insurance). i could fill many pages with my longings or wishes. i'm tired. or, not in the mood. i'll do it all eventually.
helena and devon and i just made a fucked, awful old country song by me tapping my foot against the bookcase door, helena slapping her thigh (devon the same) and together they sang the lyrics that popped in their head. all was going well until we realized my window was wide open and there were children playing in the alley. it was great anyhow.
topics to pursue later: wasteland spots, my interest in alcohol, maybe drugs?
i want so badly to ruin and harm and derange myself. why? i idolize alcohol even though i know it's mangled many lives. i want so badly to feel bad liquor slide down my throat. i want to sit, alone, blaring music, sipping horrific, cheap liquor and beer. i want to go all night, drinking, until i'm tipsy enough to switch for water. that's not so destructive, is it? no, hardly. i just want to feel my brain slip away from me, and i feel like alcohol would do that in more managable ways than drugs. at the moment i don't long to be that far out. my pencil is dwindling dull and i wish it wasn't.
i was daydreaming a conversation between ryan and (?) and i (i should just make purely imaginary friends, huh) where i told 'ryan' (who more resembled johnny in spirit) that while he (the more i think about it, the more i reckon i was speaking to 'johnny') sought happiness and peace in his life, i contently and perhaps eagerly seek to pursue parts of my own destruction. i want to experience it, feel it. my 'destruction' is not as bad as so many peoples', i konw. i want to control it. let me intense mind roam with the help of hard ale. maybe weed. maybe acid. see, not bad. a hangover and the subsequent emotions of dread and unfeeling sound incredible. burying my feelings feels incredible. i want to continue like this. i really hope i'm not setting myself up to be a person who 'needs' saving. quotations are up for interpretation. incredible to think of how differently i'll perceive this in time.
read the two intros to sartres' 'extistentialism is humanism' and 'commentary on The Stranger', but i need to say- i love imagining pain. when will i pursue it? hindsight and romantic daydreams kill me.
ordered several books: crush & war of foxes by richard siken; nausea, sartre; iliad; autobiography of red, anne carson. quite excited for all of it, though crush especially. i love siken dearly. and i've been so, so horny lately. or, longing? don't konw, but this is very runofthemill for an adolescent, huh? one thing isn't, though. sexsomnia.
the sexsomnia bit is something i'm tired of explaining to myself, but for about four nights in a row now i woke up in the act and took several minutes to register what i was doing. last night i was terrified i'd do it as my friends slept, but luckily i woke up clean, and, if i had, i'm very quiet. it's far more bizarre exploration than proper stimulation, guess that's alright. seriously can't wait to get my dick. i'll be like, 23? won't be functional w/o discomfort till about 24.
i had a very weird emotional burst today. i got possessive over an object and got mad at devon. per our dynamic, my anger is still masqueraded as a confusing joke. i made two conscious decisions: one before- to not guilt trip or manipulate her into giving me the item, which i'd wanted to do so badly- and one after, which was to focus and bury this bizarre, sudden, and genuine anger of mine. i was shocked at my emotion and worked for several minutes to subdue it. felt so, so odd, that anger. it seethed, bubbled inside me. i cannot say how it felt. as i worked to pass it, it grew. riled inside me, felt like a threat. what do i do with this? is that how all emotion feels? somehow i feel like the answer's yet. i do feel emotions, i'm not that gone, but sometimes my excitement (especially when in others' comapny) is a threat. not an unwelcome one, and not one that is of its own- threats of happiness/etc bring upon guilt and anxiety. perhaps this is part of why i romanticize seeking self destruction [, if mild]. it skips steps of joy, and feels like a natural state to me. it feels like a natural state to me- not of all humans/humanity, but me. we all got different 'natural' states.
i want to move to pastoral states. drifters region, new england, and the northwest... ideal american living regions. the chaparral is perfect for visiting. unless i were in the mountains [w/ a change of heart] i could never live here again. it's awful.
Commentary on those entries, made in December 2024.
This journal entry is exceedingly long when uncut. It's likely the longest in my diary that doesn't consist at all of notes. I completely forgot about Maine. I'd wanted to run off there as opposed to a major city, since i thought Portland Maine would be better to ease into. I was hoping to take a gap year out there and resume at community college or even university as a citizen of the state of Maine. I was 16. So repressed, isolated, lonely, and not particularly caused by quarantine. Being accessible by means other than social media is a priviledge of those with close-knit communities, and the ability to expand it comfortably offline. I'm saddened by the fact i didn't join their singing. Wasteland spots i don't think i ever listed, it's a diary, not a blog. My interest in alcohol remains, and i can kind of access it now. Still four months till i can get it anytime. Drugs... my interest remains, but only in weed and acid. Some other things are interesting, but so hard to get i don't bother at all. I've always been a hell of a masochist. Jesus. Self destruction is horrible, it's ruined me, but when you have nothing to look forward to that pain and adrenaline is all you've got. I destroyed myself during burnout, depression, crippling dysphoric insecurities and anxiety. I'm still capable of it, but i stay away. There are still burdens i want to take on, but they're selfish. This is when i got Autobiography of Red... that book changed me. I'm still bummed i left my copy of Crush at an ex's house, never to return. Shit. Sexsomnia, though. I haven't experieneced it since. It happened a few more times that school year, though, and usually always during my period. As for phallo, i now don't intend to do that til my 30s at the earliest. Money just won't really allow for it in my 20s. And, christ, i really knew how to analyze myself and get scared and do nothing anyway from the jump, huh? Also, i'm a fan of the south again. It's not totally sodom, and when it is i like it anyway. It's also part of that self-destruction habit, though. I've only ever felt lonely or abused down there, and i want to return anyway.