Now that we’ve given up on the whole “pandemic” thing, I’m really not ready to go back to the way things were. I liked the way things were in March 2020: I had time off for the first time in years, I had an excuse to not talk to people or leave my house, I had the greatest gift of all: time.
Now that all that is over, I miss not having people come up to me in public and asking me questions about shit I don’t care about. No, I don’t want to sign your petition. No, I don’t want to donate to your fundraiser that definitely isn’t just an upper-class way to beg for money. No, I don’t care that you’ve seen me in other places and want to talk to me about them. I enjoyed being a crotchety old man that didn’t engage with anyone, and it’s a shame to see that stop being acceptable.
I work at a dusty liquor store that closes late, so I’ve met some interesting people, to say the least. Compared to Dunks, this place is a much better work environment, but the customers are much crazier. I had a guy come in and trap me in a conversation about how much he hates dogs, and how he would kill one if it came close to him. What do you say to that? “Word, I definitely feel that killing a dog that just wants to love you is a rational response.” People like that are why I want the ‘Rona to finish what it started. I guarantee that guy isn’t vaccinated.
I’m not the same man I was in 2020: I’m not 2 bad days away from sticking a shotgun in my mouth, I’m eating healthy, I’m kinda sober, and I’m a morning person now, it’s crazy.
I had a good week for the first time in forever. It was crazy, everything seemed to work out for me. I got a 91 on my accounting midterm, I bodied my Fed Tax test, and I finally felt comfortable at work. Everything seemed to work out.
I’m not sure why I felt the need to let people know that I’m ok, but I also feel the need to record the fact that for a brief moment in time, everything didn’t suck, and that all the times I told myself “It’ll get better” weren’t just lies I had to tell myself to keep existing.
I’ve been making music lately. Not anything I’d ever share, but it’s something that started to allow me to express myself through another medium, which I think is super important. I really hate that feeling where you have all this creative energy, and no outlet to remove it, and that usually ends up manifesting in more destructive ways. I don’t know how often I’ll be back because I really don’t have anything else to say, but if I do, you’ll know.
It’s kind of wild to watch yourself lose control. It’s like being trapped in a sound-proof glass box while someone else controls your body; you see yourself say and do all these things that you hate, and no matter how hard you punch and kick and yell at the box, you can’t break out of it and stop yourself.
I haven’t worn pants since Sunday. I haven’t eaten much, and I definitely haven’t gone outside. Sometimes I don’t do anything but sit in bed and stare at the wall, hoping that I’ll fall asleep, and that today will be over.
It’s getting worse. Usually I can fight it off, but I’m getting tired now. I know that I should stop drinking, that I should find a job, that I should work out like I used to, that I should reach out to my friends and see if they’re okay, even if I’m not. I know I should do all of these things, but I can’t for some reason. It’s like my car is out of gas, and the nearest gas station is 20 miles away, and I’ve got to crawl there.
I really just want to pretend I’m okay. My mom told me the other day that she feels pain when I’m hurt, even from small things. I don’t have the heart to hurt her by telling her how miserable I am. My parents are amazing, they’ve given me every advantage they could, they’ve loved me even though I’ve been a piece of shit, and they deserve to live the rest of their lives in happiness.
I want to be better. I want to make my family and friends proud, but I don’t know if I can. My friends haven’t noticed that I’m slowly losing my mind, but I’ve worked very hard to keep it that way. I don’t want them to worry about me, and I definitely don’t want them to tell my parents, there’s already enough pain in the world today, I don’t want to add any more to it.
I haven’t been posting for a while for a very simple reason: I don’t have anything left to say.
There are thousands and thousands of people who do exactly what I do, and I have enough self-awareness to realize that bitching about my problems on the internet isn’t a good look, so I’ve backed off a bit recently.
What the fuck have I even said here? I’ve had maybe 3 good ideas in the last half-decade, and one of them is already being done by people more capable than I am.
I’m trying to be more honest with people, which is hard because I’m kind of a piece of shit. I don’t really understand the whole “personal boundaries” thing, so I’ll make a really awful joke that I think is funny, but in reality, I would get the shit smacked out of me if I were anyone else. It’s hard to judge the situations where I can just be wild sarcastic and move on, and the situations where I need to actually be nice to this person so that I don’t make things worse for myself. I wonder what my life would be like if I could actually maintain relationships, and wasn’t terrified of the outside world.
This is starting to get all boo-hooey and gross, so I’ll just end it here.
I’ve written most of these posts in one of two places, either while clocked in at Dunkin’, or locked in my room. It’s funny for me to go back and read my posts, because I can see which ones were made where.
Usually, the wild depressing ones are made in my room, isolated from everything else in my life. The yellow walls of my room are sometimes the closest I get to seeing sunlight, so I’m sure that contributes to the overall vibe of my writing.
I love my room. It’s where I feel most comfortable. It has all my books, my records, my laptop and speakers, my reefer, and an incredibly comfortable bed that I use as a couch most of the time. I think I write my best work here, because when I’m comfortable, I’m less likely to be self-conscious, and more likely to trust my ideas.
My room isn’t much. It’s not as big as the other rooms in my parent’s house, it doesn’t have it’s own bathroom or any architectural significance, but it’s mine, and has been as long as I can remember. I use my room to escape from a world I don’t think I belong in, so by surrounding myself with things that make sense to me (books and music), I made a place that feels like a sanctuary for me.
My time in The Yellow Room is running out. As life moves on for me, I’m starting the process of moving out of my house and becoming a real person, which scares the shit out of me. Sometimes I don’t know if I can function, or even survive without this place. It’s been my creative oasis for so many years, I don’t know if any other space will stimulate my brain the same way, and that makes me sad.
I’m definitely overthinking this, but the shitty thing about constantly being stuck in your head is that you can never tell if you’re right to think the way you do.
Why is writing so helpful for so many people? Does it work for everyone, or is there something that makes you gravitate to writing to decipher your thoughts and feelings? I’m in a really weird place in life right now, I thought I knew what I wanted and how my life was going to turn out, but I’ve been wrong every time it mattered. I thought I was going to work in Advertising, that hasn’t worked, no matter how many campaigns I make. I thought I would be happy, that’s not happening. I thought I’d understand the world around me, which is the most laughable of all the ideas I’ve had.
I have so many questions that won’t get answered, and I’m starting to think that that’s okay.
I’ve been super depressed lately, and it’s definitely fucking with me, but I need to muscle through and try to be a person for a bit. I’m scared, but I think that just means I’m on the right path.
I think having all this time to myself has helped, or at least helped more than it’s hurt. I’ve had time to take stock of what’s important to me, I’ve cut down on my drinking, and I also have an incredible reason to not socialize with people I don’t like.
If it weren’t for this blog, Spotify, and vinyl records, I’d probably be be writing my manifesto in blood mixed with bourbon. Either that, or I’d be writing Tito’s campaigns and drinking scotch out the bottle in my bathrobe. Actually, that sounds like fun, I’m going to go do that now.
I tend to revisit things. I’ve been thinking about why, and I think it’s because I know what to expect. I know how the book ends, or how the album sounds, or what the dish tastes like. It’s comforting, and right now I kinda need comfort.
I try to try new things, but it’s really hard for me. I need to know what I’m getting myself into before I jump into something. Whenever I want to try something, I have to research the hell out of it before I try it, so I can mitigate any potential issues, and so I’m not going in blind. Now, that might sound boring to some people, but those people also say that you should just jump into things, and I think that’s fucking crazy. We’ve evolved as a species so that we don’t have to die because we ate a random plant that turned out to be toxic. We have to technology to research things, so what’s the harm in using it?
It’s important to be comfortable. It’s the time where we fully relax, and let our minds wander. That is super important right now. With thousands of people dying every day to something we can’t fight, we’ve been on edge for the last 9 months, so it’s important to find comfort wherever and whenever you can. Those few moments where we can sit back and take a breather might be the one thing that keeps us from doing something permanent.
So what makes you comfortable? I’m trying to start a discussion here, so comment below and share the wealth. You never know how much someone might need it.
Every once in awhile, I have a moment of profound clarity, or so I think. I realized that two words I wrote while taking the Browns to the Superbowl may have been the smartest thing I’ve written on this page. I’m refering to my previous post, where I say that money isn’t the root of all evil, fear is. Those last two words, seemingly plucked from thin air while taking an egregious bowel movement, have been running through my head all day.
Fear is the root of all evil, but it’s also the root of all sadness, guilt, and insecurity. Fear makes you think that you’re not good enough, and then bombards you with reasons to believe it. If fear was a person, it would be Grima Wormtongue from Lord of the Rings.
Fear changes people. It makes them think the worst of other people, and themselves. It makes you think that everything you’ve worked for is a second away from shattering and leaving you with nothing. That power makes people do terrible things. I’m trying to be more empathetic, so whenever I see someone who can be considered evil, I just picture a cornered animal- terrified, hurt, with nothing to lose. I know some people are just dicks, or think they are on the right side of history, or whatever, but I think most evil people are just scared.
If the personification of my fear was right in front of me, I’d beat the brakes off of that smarmy bastard. Fear has robbed me of so many things; potential jobs, relationships, friends, hobbies, my self-confidence, and it probably contributes to the deep pit of depression I have to crawl out of every day. I’ve definitely succumbed to it, and as much as I hate to admit it, it has definitely changed me as a person. I used to like meeting new people. I used to be fearless and talk to pretty girls way out of my league at bars. I used to not white-knuckle the steering wheel whenever I drove. All of that is gone now, and I have fear to thank for it. Thanks a lot, asshole.
I don’t know how to overcome my fear, it’s like I’m at Helm’s Deep looking at the army of Isengard creeping closer, and I know that it will overwhelm me and kill everything I love. I just finished watching the Extended Edition, so I’m probably going to throw in a lot of Lord of the Rings references for the next few weeks.
I know that there is medication that can clear up whatever fear I have, but the more I research these medications, the more I realize that 1) benzodiazepines are awful, and I’d rather not take them, 2) I’m crazy, but I might not be crazy enough to need (additional) medication and 3) Xanax is for Golf Moms and SoundCloud rappers, and I am neither. I guess I’m going to have to nut up and make a concentrated effort to change, which is funny because I have ADHD, and can barely concentrate on anything.
The most powerful item in the world weighs about a gram. It’s not sharp, it can’t kill anyone, and you can’t eat it. It’s a tiny little object that has the power to change your life. Need a hint?
Money is the most powerful thing on the planet. For all the shit Wolf of Wall St. gets, it was right about one thing: money can achieve anything.
We’re all greedy pricks when it comes down to it, it’s in our nature to be animals, so when given the chance, we jump on it. Look at all of the pharma executives who have more money than they could ever spend in a hundred lifetimes. Do you think they got to where they are by being nice?
Money has the power to change everything about you. You can buy new clothes to look the best you can, you can hire personal trainers and nutritionists to help get you into shape, you can support whatever hobby you’re into at the moment with enough money. It also has a negative effect on your mental health, interpersonal relationships, and the overall health of our planet.
Money provides comfort. That’s pretty much it. If you’re Old Money™️, you can do whatever you want; you can hire a personal chef so you don’t have to cook, which saves you time, you can hire a chauffer to drive you around, which removes the stress of being stuck in traffic, you can also hire an assistant to do all the annoying shit you don’t want to do, giving you more time to work on your golf swing, or to give you peace of mind before you go to work, or because what’s the point of having “fuck you” money, if you never say “fuck it” and do whatever you want.
At a certain point, I think aquiring wealth becomes an addiction. Why else would Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, and every oil Sheik work so damn hard to get more of it? For their legacy? So their great-great-grandkids can grow up so detached from society that they become so hedonistic they spend all your money? I’m trying to understand it, but it’s escaping me at the moment.
Money is like oxygen: you don’t notice it, until you start to run out of it. The things people will do when they are poor and desperate only go to show you how powerful the almighty dollar is. Why else would someone sell heroin on a dangerous street corner, or take a chance and rob someone in a country with 400 million (legal) guns. Money isn’t the root of all evil, fear is, but the fear of running out of money can drive someone to do terrible things.