Well, I suppose it's time

Hi.

It's not like there's oodles of you out there reading this, but hi anyway.

It's about time I summed up my existence. Sometimes it just feels necessary. And to be honest, there's not a poetic or creative bone in my body these days. So the practical and rational needs to take over. Thus, what follows is an assessment of the things that are currently happening in my life and what I need to do next.

POINT: Maxwell is great. Best dog ever. Love him most of all creatures in the world. Except Teense, who of course I also love, but differently.

ELABORATION: I miss him all the time. I wish I had one of those cool hipster jobs that let dogs into the office/workspace.

SOLUTION: Get a better job.

POINT: I'm getting the hang of this crappy job

ELABORATION: This makes it no less odious. Despite having four days off (fluke of scheduling), I am wasting precious energy feeling uncomfortable about returning there on Monday.

SOLUTION: Get a better job.

POINT: I haven't had sex in a very very long time

ELABORATION: And normally, there's a corresponding drop in sex drive, as though my body is responding responsibly to a natural drop in resources. Not so. In fact, even as my "game" has completely disappeared and there's NO ONE I really want to have sex with around, my desire for sex has near-tripled in the past month.

SOLUTION: Get game back, go to Toronto or something.

POINT: (as above) I have no game.

ELABORATION: Due possibly to my cripplingly low self esteem and increasing frustration and anger management issues, I have no patience for anyone, no sense of self-worth, and consequently, no ability to appeal to others as a sexy, interesting character.

SOLUTION: I dunno. Be happier and sexier? Probably see below and above for solutions to that. These things are all so damned intrinsic.

POINT: I can't write poetry. Or draw.

ELABORATION: This. Is serious. Because I've finally admitted to myself that all I really want to do is be an artist. I want to write and be published, I want to finish a graphic novel and maybe publish that, I want to be a noted observer of human life whose words speak to people's souls. I want to create works of art with words or paint or sculpture that change the way people see the world. I want to hang out with artists and poets and radicals and be counted among them. And perhaps the pressure of this newfound clarity is silencing me, but whatever the case... it's an unrealistic dream which is relatively impossible to achieve, but my longing for it is bringing me down.

SOLUTION: Get real, kiddo.

POINT: My body is a minefield.

ELABORATION: And I mean this in a number of uncomfortable ways.

1. Issues re: personal trauma are coming up pretty frequently. Those terrors that grip me are becoming more pressing and frequent. This is probably due to a new kind of loneliness after having felt pretty safe with someone who's now out of reach. NOT to blame this person. We connected, had a great thing, now she's gone and it's done. I'm more than happy that we are staying in touch and planning on being good friends. I don't want anything further. Honest. But I guess it just takes some time to readjust to being alone in this body.
2. I am SO. SO. out of shape. Which is fair enough. All I do is sit at work all day, walk 10 minutes to and from work, and sit at home all night. Max hates the cold and would really rather cuddle a lot these days... and I'm too depressed to push myself into action. Also I'm smoking a lot and eating little in terms of nutritional content. Poverty does that.
3. My carpel tunnel does not like call centre work.

SOLUTION: Quit smoking. My roommate and I ran out of weed about a week ago and made a conscious decision not to buy any more for a long time. So that will help with motivation, certainly. But considering my joie de vivre can't get much lower, I might as well bite the bullet and go for the end of nicotine as well. And with regards to #1... I gotta make a doctor's appointment. And see if they can refer me somewhere affordable and queer-friendly. I need the talking cure, dammit.

POINT: It's damned cold out

ELABORATION: I know, I know... it's supposed to be. It's almost December. But fuck. Near constant grey skies can really bring a guy down.

SOLUTION: Suck it up, princess. Get some mittens from the free market and get out there.

OVERALL ASSESSMENT: I need a better job. Which might have to wait until I get to a better town. I also need more money, medical care, better nutrition, and sex. But my dog is great.

ON THE UPSIDE: ALL of the above is infinitely more mature and thoughtful and realistic than I've ever been able to be. And part of the reason I have no money is that I'm paying off bills on time, calling people and setting up payment plans, and buying bulk groceries like rice and quinoa to keep me at least semi-fed over an extended period of time. I haven't been drinking at all, and like I said, it's been a week since I smoked weed. I totally believe I'll be able to quit smoking, and that this will help my energy levels and self-esteem to no end. Soon, the debt will level out with my income and I'll be able to afford a little more of a carefree lifestyle. And while I might not be feeling social now, I do know that the friends I have will all still be there when I climb out from under the rock I've been living beneath.

So... Good. I feel relatively ok. Despite the shittiness of everything.

Cheers.