There is a very good chance that by the end of my shift tonight I will have devoured an entire box of “matzoh crunch” and will feel pretty damn bad about it.
I’m so bored that there also a chance that my head is going to explode.
The past few weeks have been pretty terrible. I could really use a few days to just decompress or get out of town (some place warm and very far from Chicago) but since that won’t happen I figured I would blog. Because, well, I kind of hate writing right now and should force myself (aside from the occasional “man shot on the South Side.” I’m sure I’ll write many more of those before the night is over).
My nana died this week. I am lucky that I have had her in my life until now, but it really doesn’t make it any better. I’ve never really lost anyone that I was terribly close to, and when my aunt died awhile back I was too young for it to really effect me the way it probably should have.
I’m generally sad and have been sad since I found out on Tuesday and saw her lying there in her bed. I didn’t really want to see her like that. I don’t do well with death and it’s hard enough looking at someone in a casket. Fuck.
I just kept thinking about being at her house telling her about my boy troubles and our crazed relatives while we ate chocolate and drank Diet Pepsi. She always had cats and cookies and would make me pour vodka into her 7-Up at family parties.
My heart hurts. I mean, she was nearly 80 and had a rough life. The past couple years have been particularly bad and seeing her deteriorate like that was the worst.
I don’t know. I don’t really want to write about it anymore.
I don’t know what I want to write about anymore.
I sometimes wish I could just work a job, make decent money and have benefits, have 2 days off a week to spend doing anything I wanted. I am tired of this pattern. I’ve been doing this since I was 15, and though I know I’m young I would like to die knowing I spent at least some of my young life enjoying myself. Not constantly stressing about work and having to beg someone to switch with me so I can go to dinner with my dad once a month or see my sister’s softball game.
I just feel like none of this shit even matters. I don’t feel like I’m doing anything with my life that I’m particularly proud of. I’m not inspired, I’m just fucking tired.
I hate having to see my girlfriend at midnight and hang out for an hour before we sleep and for a few hours in the morning before I have to get ready for work and do it again. I guess a lot of people deal with weird hours, but I really don’t want to.
I’m being dramatic. It’s just been a bad week. I really hate blogging and feeling like my blog is stupid and irrelevant and self-involved.
Ugh, whatever.
1 Comment
April 13, 2008 at 5:50 pm
Not to be like, “I know how you feel,” but…my grandfather was the same kind of situation. He died last year and it wasn’t until he was gone that I realized what an impact he had made on me. I’d never lost anyone that I cared about and it hit hard. Even though he never broke the law, he was the baddest ass that I knew.
Don’t take it out on writing, though. Writing is a GOOD thing. Writing is exercise, writing is taking out the trash, so to speak. You’re good, as far as I’ve read.
You’re also a good person, so smiley and congenial. Things and people come and go. It is writing that keeps them alive. So just do it.