I'm a Wanderer

Not working is not working for me.

Being confined to my home all day is giving my mind a chance to remind itself that it is, in fact, CRAZY! Keeping busy at work helps me forget this and I am able to function as a normal equation. I don't even know math anymore.

I do nothing with my spare time. I wander the streets taking pictures with my goddamn iPhone and hope people will like them on Instagram. How far have I fallen? Where is rock bottom? Is there a reason it's called rock bottom? Like maybe I won't know until it hurts so bad I need other people to get me up? Fucking nightmare. The last thing I want is to become other peoples' problems. I am an explicit function of my own dysfunction.

I wander the streets of Chinatown and buy weird things that I only use maybe 1/3 of because the function of the rest truly escapes me. Maybe I should scale that back even further because I made a stir fry using some greens that looked safe to eat (though I cannot say this with confidence) and some chilis that while they may have been safe to eat should be used in EXTREME moderation...not just regular moderation. You know that red chili they print on Chinese menus to signify 'spicy?' This is the very pepper whose picture adorns all those fair papers. I love spicy food, but I do not enjoy coughing like a sprayed pepper spray and was not harmlessly cooking for my boyfriend and I.

I wander the streets of SoHo and buy stuff from the stores I can afford apparently just so I can feel guilty. I come home and lie about when I bought the stuff, then end up returning most of it. It gives me another reason to wander. I go into Ricky's and think 'this store is the fucking best' and sometimes buy something.

I wander by the bridges and river and look into the murky waters and wonder about the eels and think to myself that SOMEDAY I will live somewhere where I can catch my own fish and grow my own food and have a piano in my house and be able to lay on the floor and look at the ceiling and not feel as if the walls might squeeze me if I eat too much. Then I think, 'I will catch and eat these fish, and I might die, but I will be cool as fuck.' I have always cared more about being cool as fuck than anything practical. 

Sometimes I sit in the park on Forsyth or in a Chinese bakery and drink milk tea and eat some sort of Chinese pastry with red bean paste or something similar. I wonder if I annoy the Chinese people but decide they don't really give a shit, yet they mean everything to me.

I am almost completely convinced that if I keep writing my insanity will either dissipate or double.

So today I did no wandering. Yesterday I did not wander. I don't remember what it was yesterday, but today I decided that 65 was too cold to venture outside and fell asleep on the couch listening to Nirvana. What the fuck, you say? Indeed, love.

I am beginning to think that I might have reached the root of my square....aghhaha. How about this - I am being stifled by practicality. I AM TWENTY-SIX YEARS OLD AND I FEEL OLD AND RESPONSIBLE AND I DON'T EVEN HAVE A DOG. I forced myself into this; I said I'll show you, I'll fucking show all of you and I was just acting. It was all an act to prove my worth that I failed to show through conventional means such as...college. I have tried to write recently. I have, but it's the next step that I am terrified and completely unprepared for that will be my GOLIATH.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta. I'm back.