Yeah that’s right… I titled the post that damn Moby song. It’s my audio morphine, my aural pillow. My Earsturbation strokelage. Stick those apples in your pipe and smoke em.
I need to get some shit off my chest, and I figure this is the place to do it. This metaphorical cleveland steamer needs to be scraped off with the symbolic spatula that is self expression.
Internet blogs… when keeping it to yourself is just too boring.
I’m worried about my living situation. The people close to me must be bored of my constant fretting already… It’s on my mind almost every day. See, I live in a converted attic over our landlord’s house in suburbia. Problem being that they don’t seem to have a permit (or some kind of zoning crappery has taken place), so now the city has to come in and inspect. This is all going down on the 21st of this month. I figure at minimum I have until February. They can’t evict us without at least 30 days notice, right?
But it’s not so much the stress of looking for a new place to live… I think it’s more the feeling that I am not in control over anything. Add to this the looming responsibility of independence and the chance that perhaps I may just have to move the hell back home and you’ve got a jumbo gumbo of stress and hand-wringing. Wringing is best left to old-school laundry people and telephones. One wring to rue them all.
It’s like everything was chucked up in the air like a pile of leaves, and I’m the dumbass to the side with a rake wondering how I’m going to clean the mess up. I don’t want to rake. I want to motherfucking swan-dive into the leaves and play. I suppose that’s not always the option.
And I suppose California isn’t a profitable place to set up a leaf-raking business.
I hope your living situation improved. All I came on here to say was, damn, you’re one hell of a good writer. Perhaps you should take it up and do something more with it?