there aren’t enough

hours in the day.
it’s so true and so pathetic.
because by the time that i am finished doing everything all day long for everyone else, i have about five minutes to my very self before i fall asleep and am getting ready to do it all again.

i wish that i could invent another hour in the day that i could devote specially to writing. but i cant. that would apparently throw off the days of the year, little by little, until eventually we were bringing out the snow blowers in mid july. fucking physics.

instead…i try and make the time occur in time that already exists. heretofore, i have been unsuccessful.because, by the time that i get home from work and cook dinner and change out of my work clothes, it’s time for me to go and get my dad. and when i get home from going to get my dad it is time for me to make sure that i have something to wear for tomorrow, and then i have to brush my teeth and wash my face and fall asleep, or go out and get my brother.

because my mother couldnt possibly be expected to pick up her husband or her son…that is just too much to be asked of her selfish, unemployed ass.

i have the worst headache right now, because i fell asleep for fifteen minutes before and i fell asleep in the most awful position so that the work that dr p did on my back must have been eradicated, or some other sort of bs. or maybe i’m getting sick, which i doubt, mostly because i dont have time to be sich right now.

deep thinky thoughts are still plaguing me and i really don’t have time for them either. but, they catch me off guard at times and lead to questions that go, “are you alright?” to which i always answer in the affirmative, because any other answer just takes too much of the time that i dont have.

my ideas are worth it. i read some of the things that i have written and they are so amazing and beautiful and wonderful, that it’s like it wasnt even me. they are so fucking perfect that i want to stop working on whatever they are a part of because i could never live up to the words again in that piece so why even try. but i dont give up, because then there is nothing to strive for. and for what is the purpose of living this fucked up life if not to try for the betterment of self?

im tired of the crazy shithouses…there is enough going on in my head without having to worry about what’s going on in theirs. crazy shithouse number one…i cant even look him in the eye, because i am afraid that if i do he might begin to think that i am either a) trying to hypnotize him and force him to do things by controlling him with my voice in his head or b) trying to melt his brains or his soul through the use of my invisible laser eyebeams and of course it’s through his eyes because as we all know the eyes are windows to the brains as well as the soul, or c) i will unwittingly enter into some sort of animalistic alpha animal type staring contest that will end with him trying to tear my throat out with his teeth for ‘challenging him’. and i am dead ass fucking serious.

i want to wash my hands of the whole ordeal, but i feel like doing nothing is just as bad as doing all of the wrong things. the only appropriate thing to do at this point would be to dial 911 the next time he looks at me with his crazy blank eyed stare and get him taken away for his own good. once the docs tweaked his meds he would be fine again. and then i still probably wouldnt want to see him because i would feel bad about subjecting him to the kind of hell where he cant piss without permission, but it really would be for his own good.

and then there is the crazy shithouse that swoons at the thought of paul touching his badly toupeed head and grabs his balls when he’s talking to a female (probably to the end of making sure his junk is warmed up, just in case). the guy who then sits out in his car, staring in the windows at us, faking phone conversations when we look in his direction or step outside. he may just be weird and funny and a subject of many many good jokes for some of the others, but i see the look in his eyes and i heard how angry he was at the phone. the speed at which he goes from hot to cold is alarming and he calls me sweetheart and it’s creepy. especially because he’s grabbing his junk.

at least it’s been over a week since i’ve had a jesus pamphlet thrust in my face, filled with fun facts about how i will eventually be burning in hell, unless of course the messiah returns in 2012 and just melts my eyeballs out of their sockets at first sight, puts my carcass on a spit, and uses me to attract other bad people who want to feast on my super yummy bad person flesh. the smell is enticing to other baddies, i’ve heard.

and there arent enough hours in the day. my head is pounding, and i feel a little dizzy, and there are things that i want to be working on. but these thoughts in my head, they’re like a handicap that i just dont want to talk about. maybe i’ll digress into a frankenstein blank stare because the thoughts behind my eyes are immense and just dont transmit.

im scared because it’s familiar. schizos and jesus freaks and debhilitatingly OCD pervs are all too familiar and i dont want to deal with it. i dont want to deal with what comes and is worse. did i sign up for this? im really not sure. am i going to walk away? i know that i wont. the material is priceless.

and that is only halfway a joke.

my dad wont go in to see doc, even though he says that his back is killing him. he says that it’s just another dr and he sees enough already. he says it’s probably just arthritis and nothing can be done about it. but there is stuff, i mean, no cure, but it can be treated. i just dont want my dad to suffer…he does enough as it is.

i want to cry all of the time. my thoughts are immense and too large to transmit through my eyes. so i suck on lollipops and think of happier, more distracting things, that dont adequately distract me, because apparently my mind is like a vortex with thoughts swirling around the center, and i just am able to see them and hear them and glimpse them all the time. swirling round and round like candy in a cotton machine. i am not brave enough to wield the stick that will swirl the thought into sensical fluff that can be digested. it builds. the machine jams. i choke on candied cotton spuff and the saliva melted goop hardens, casing me in a saccharine cacoon.

the world around me spins. i dont think that i will ever win. duck. duck. duck. goose. chase me chase me. you will lose.

i write and i write and nothing gets done, because there is always another things poking at my attention span and begging for a turn.

i might just be hopeless…but that doesnt mean i’ll give up quite yet.

~ by warwick on July 7, 2009.