the birds’ nest thing i started the other day and kept coming back to it and i liked it. i liked how it was coming out of me, all natural like. it felt good, it felt like good writing. maybe it could have been edited or what-have-you, but you know that’s not how i roll here. i guess i’m just going to keep doing this how i do it. if i want to get a book deal, then i’ll write a fucking book. the smussyolay will ever be the smussyolay. at least for today.
i’m at my parents’ house. it’s 1:37 pm. i’m sick and tired and furious and sad and pissed off and angry and hurt and fuckalled. it’s freezing in here and my feet are cold and i feel like i’ve been cold for over 24 hours and that alone is enough to get me in a fucked up mindset. i swear, get me tired and cold enough — get me cold enough — and i’ll tell you state secrets. you don’t have to get out the waterboard. just get me cold.
and then you add all the other pressures. the neurotic mother. who really, truly is neurotic. not even a little bit. not even exaggerating. this time, i was really paying attention, and it’s crushing. the things she’s worrying about, the way she’s worrying about them, the way she is insisting that you. worry. about. them. too. i just can’t have that on me.
on the other hand, there’s the constant silent insistence that we all ignore that mom is smoking like a chimney (but didn’t she have cancer a few years ago?) and that dad is drinking way too much for someone who has diabetes (he makes remarks about mom, but YES dad, you have it, too) and someone with one kidney. someone who’s on more medication than most sunday football games run ads for. let’s all ignore all of this, shall we? well, we HAVE to, because if we don’t, dad will fucking lose his shit. yes, isn’t this all fun?
don’t complain about it being too cold or him drinking too much or my sister doing this wrong or whatthefuckever. do it their way, all the time. don’t ever want something your way. you’ll be told that you’re lazy or shitty or whatever, but then you’ll eventually get your way, you’ll just hear about it for the rest of the day, week, or life you have to live.
i don’t know. i just went back and read that post about me being mad and the therapist and all of that, and i just am here and dealing with all of this shit and i sort of want to leave him another message that says … “hey, guy. do you want me just to film this shit? cause i can’t explain this stuff any better than a video camera would. this stuff is just fucking exhausting. am i a fucking douchebag because i don’t want to go to bingo with them tomorrow morning?”
actually, what prompted this post was me reading over that post and reading things about me saying that i had been approached by friends saying things like they were ‘complimenting me on my fashion,’ and whatnot. and i remember talking about that with him on monday and sort of discussing that with him and at one point sort of him maybe trying to get to the heart of the matter — what were these people trying to get at when they said these things to me? i don’t know? they liked me? they loved me? what would i be doing when i said nice things to people? yeah — i liked them. i loved them. so, sure … they might be trying to say the same thing to them.
but you know what, guy? it’s not like that here. in one moment, i can see my parents giving me money to be fair to me because they gave my sister something. i can see them taking pictures with us. i can see them going out of their way to love us. and in another, i can see them just being selfish — killing themselves, regardless of who it affects. being so wrapped up in their own shit that it doesn’t matter who they’re hurting. saying things that are so weird and offensive and rude that they can’t see how hurtful they are.
——we ate in the afternoon. everyone else ate again maybe an hour or two afterward. i didn’t. i didn’t eat or have dessert. i don’t know. i wasn’t hungry. at midnight, i went into the kitchen and made three *very small* turkey sandwiches — i made them from dinner rolls. i was hungry. i hadn’t had anything to eat since the afternoon. my mom says “three!?” and then tells me i shouldn’t eat that late … especially if i ‘want to lose weight.’ hmm. interesting. i don’t ever remember telling my mom i wanted to lose weight. i would like to lose weight. it’s a sore subject with me. i really hate how i look right now. i’ve even commented to my mom how my grandma’s comments in the past really used to bug me. i was genuinely hungry, though. i wasn’t eating cookies. i hadn’t had anything to eat in 8 hours. so, i just looked at my mom and said “have i been writing letters to you about that?” as if to say, “have i been complaining to you about wanting to lose weight? oh, no? then SHUT UP.”
who the fuck says that? HEY DAUGHTER! YOU’RE FUCKING FAT. yeah, mom. i know. i fucking know. memo received by me from my mirror every day. generally more than once. don’t need any extra special telegrams. whatever. i’m tired. i need to go to bed. but it’s that kind of shit that it’s like ….. what am i supposed to do with that? blah.