I wouldn't even know where to begin...

Seems like doors close just after I take a look through the peephole.

Then again, I do get agoraphobic sometimes.

At the best of times, I hope you're happy. Really and truly.

And at the worst of times, I hope everything you do falls apart.

I was born into a world where flames fell from the sky.

I feel like, sometimes, we could benefit from a life that we have fight to survive to keep the privileges we have instead of being spoofed safety and comfort wherein the only things we fear are diseases created of our own devices and losing someone to age.

Where are the carnivorous dinosaurs to chase us around while we hide and shit ourselves?

Shoot first. Ask questions later.

I think we gave that up with covered wagons.

I'm getting to that stage where all I can see through paranoid eyes is dishonesty. And all I can do is let the negativity flood in and swirl around me.

Maybe this is all I've been for so long that there's really no point in fighting it. Trying to be the best person never quite works out, even when you stay the course despite being in the dust of crumbling dreams.

I never bother to care until it's pointless. And people tend to see what they want, despite what the truth is.

I find people are more often not what they seem to be.

I feel content absorbing myself in work. And by work, I mean writing and planning out comic book pages.

Is it strange to be more of oneself while outside of yourself?

And I randomly find one thing rolling around in my head from some book I read somewhere: "Go then! There are other worlds than this!"

I feel like it defines myself in a way. I wasn't quite made for the tangible things.

I think I hate horoscopes. Just when I think they're talking to me, I understand nothing of the reading for today.

Stupid astrology.

I realize that I sound more depressing and sad than I intend. Sorry for those people that find this and get a one-sides impression of me. I think a lot on things that end up not coming out in the brightest demeanor and the more fresh and personal things are, the more vague I get. That's the way I've always decided to share things. But please know that I'm not always sitting in a gloomy room thinking of random shit to say to make someone worry or anything else. I'm usually in a well lot room with a glass of water and a flask of emergency bourbon and a comic book.

So many lights and they're all going out like candles in high wind. I'll breathe deep and shuffle my way through this long dark.

Wow, I haven't felt this bad in a long time. Wonder what my psychic advisor would say?

I think I've written and said just about all I can for today. So that leaves only the tomorrows to follow.

Taco taco. Burrrrito burrito.

I've fallen into it again as much as I try to fight it. It's become wrapped around my veins and pulls me like a puppet. This is a strange familiarity that I try to fight for once and it's taking everything out of me. But I won't give in. Not this time, not with this one. She deserves something that I could never be and someone I could never give her.

Why do I even put this on here?

I've got miles to go before I get through this killer funk.

I feel a wind blowing. It'll overtake me real soon and I'm not sure what it'll be like after, but I'm curious. I'm always curious.

Where is it that I go when I'm not awake?

Sometimes I feel like that world bleeds into mine when I'm driving home at night and the trees and shadows all have faces that I've made for them.

I don't know how I feel about most things in a normal every day life-like situation, which is probably why I find myself attached so readily to the completely fabricated realities and ideas. Better to put a sword in my hand and unveil the concept of time travel than have me give advice about anything with human interaction. Not that I'm socially awkward, mind you, just that I'd rather be doing something worth talking about than explaining reasonable things to a person that won't listen anyway.

I don't know what sense I'm trying to make. I'm too tired and wanted to sound profound.

Why is it that a can't help myself with a pretty face? Especially when they have more than a few clever words?

My blood is boiling from a fever that never seems to break. I'm too excited from my own good. I'm too interested for my own good. Too god damn old to think like a 17-year-old, feeling with my crappy instincts instead of using my head to shun these types of things.

But maybe that's what I'm built for, search and find and experience the good, bad and extremely mundane in between. It's the little things that keep stacking up and up that make me stupid. And believe me, it's coming down to me being stupid and naive long after I should be.

I think I find one of the most random things I miss the most are the black horizons of the beaches in Mount Pleasant. After the sun's gone down and the endless ocean stretches out beyond what I could conceive as vast, it all turns pitch black with no variations or compass to 5 inches from your face to 500 miles. It's truly staring into an abyss of nothing, with only distant stars to set apart the sky from the sand and horseshoe crab husks lying at your feet. Here, inland, there's always the dark grey sky set against the black outline of trees or hills or houses, all of which seem far enough away not to touch, but close enough to reach out and almost be there. It's all attainable and nothing to dream about.

I miss the vast nothing shrouded in mystery and fear and unknowing peril. I want to fall into it and feel my stomach clench when I don't know how I'll make it out alive.

And I also miss the company that brought me back to the world I'd known when the big black threatened to swallow me up with one little gulp.

It was the last time I felt I was where I belonged and I truly don't know why.

Driving home in the middle of the night, I always have these aspirations about writing some self evolving piece as soon as I get home because somehow, sobering up and making the drive from Louisville feels like I'm traversing some self awareness vastness and unlocking some serious secrets. But when I get home and undress an crawl into a cold bed, it all scatters from my brain like a breeze clearing out cluttered brown leaves... Then I think, maybe next time...

My life is full of next times.

Seems like someone could work up a powerful loneliness in the great big empty.

I've got problems. Remind me to tell you about them when I'm not drunk in my bed at 5:18 in the morning.

It's not that putting positive energy out into the world reaps good things. One who focuses on the positive has an optimistic outlook and it's this filter that blinds a person from the negative. There is also the flip side to that, in which negative begets negative.

Me, I'm the kind of person who notices the shit storm before it comes and the bright shining sun that comes out afterward. But I like it best when it's only dark at the corners.

Sex is such a weird thing. The act itself as a form of expression or a means to an end. It's just this complicated, weird thing. But so is everything when you look too closely at it.

You know what's a good thing to do after you've had two amazing weekends and great time with long distant friends. Spend time looking up exes and feeling strangely sad about being out of their life, but not pitifully lonely. It's a hard explanation to get out, but I feel like a ghost out of time.

Nearly sick to my stomach with envy and finicky nostalgia. What's a boy my age getting into this nonsense for?

You never come out of that hole you've crawled into. Deep and dark and scary (to me, at least). I've looked up a few times and saw that the sun was shining, but instead of a hug that lasted too long, I could feel my skin getting hot and parts of me started to sweat just like being stuck in a car in the middle of summer with the windows up.
I used to hate it, the knees bending and the fingers running wild, but you don't keep up and I have nothing new to pine over. I just sit in my ebony tower of thoughts and self-crucifix actions and think about the vague lyrics that you lived your life through. It took a long while, but I got a sliver more of the understanding ear and it warms something in me. Not enough to give up and forget, just enough to realize how deep I feel and how distant I was from seeing the present right in front of me.

I'll never make that mistake again if I'm ever afforded the chance at something great with all the toppings. But it's a curse I don't know if I'll ever be ready for. Not even for familiar souls to touch my empty chest.

I figured by now that I'd stop letting you haunt my dreams, but a mighty lonely can come creeping without any personal ghosts.

There isn't a power in the cosmos that could keep my mind off of you.

What I've come to learn about night drives... is that I think too much. Two years shouldn't be this bright a torch to still be carrying.

The world is full of something, but I'm not quite sure what it is.

I have these moments where I want to share a lot of words with people I don't know. Not anything mean or spiteful and not anyone I'm around on a daily or semi-daily basis. I guess I just want to meet someone new and interesting. Could be why I'm branching out socially. Could be I'm just trying to make myself feel better for giving up on old habits. Could be I'm just a little different than I used to be.

And the sad truth of it is: she would have been more if I wouldn't have been less.

It's going to be a friend spring cleaning soon. I'm tired of giving a shit about people that don't give a shit about themselves.

In unrelated news, I didn't win the lottery. Go figure. It's why I don't play.

How often can you look at a situation and know when to walk away? Me, personally, I don't know if I can tell when, I'm happy being unhappy and happy wanting other things, so to me, being in a bad way is just another space in time that I'm justified in complaining about something. I feel like I'm too tired and old to care now, even about my own problems, much less putting my nose into someone's business like I can be apt to do, though I figured I'd mostly killed off that annoying buzz in my head that thinks my opinions are entitled and to be distributed graciously.

Then again, I know I feel crazier than I seem. For every dumb thing that actually gets out of my mouth, there's a million more revolving around my brain with a lot more venom with the thoughts. I'm an asshole. I know I am and I'm fine with playing that part, but I'm not okay with feeling vulnerable. I guess that's when I start to lose my grip on what it is that I want to be like, and though I don't really care how most people think of me, I care about what I think of myself.

The point that I'm trying to make, I guess, is I look around me and see a lot of pointless relationships with beings I barely know that are starting to drag their nails across my skin in unpleasant ways. And try as I might to be disconnected and not care, I do. I try not to put myself first and pretend that it's the happiness elsewhere that gets me warm and fuzzy. Most cases, that's not true. I'm a selfish person, and maybe I just want to be happy, too. But there's a whole spill of words and thoughts I could go into about just avoiding things like that and being the better off in the big picture, though something in my gut pulls me back in, every fucking time.

Anyway, I need to reduce the people and things I care about, even though I found it to be a small number in the first place, turns out that number isn't small enough. And this pine coffin isn't as waterproof as I thought.

All this stress is making me fat.

I spend a lot of time in my head with wishful thinking.

Sometimes, I get too tired to sleep.

I really hate knowing that I was that close again. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now and just be the calloused ass without dropping my guard.

To the future.

I started, thinking I might write a short story today, or possibly finish a comic outline or issue or two, but then I realized that all I wanted to do was write, about nothing in general and everything I've been thinking about all at once.

I touched on this before, but it's something I've been really running through my head recently, relationships. And the more that one fails at them, the more revered their relationship advice becomes. Before that's dismissed as nonsense, think of it this way: are you going to listen to someone that's been dating the same person since high school (high school ending almost ten years ago) or someone that's been out there and played the field?
The answer's a bit obvious. The high school relationship person has only had to work it out with the one person, ever. While the other, though they may not have the best intentions or priorities in relationships, will likely know how to gauge a general situation and (hopefully) successfully navigate it. I know (for the latter person) this isn't always the case, they're either out to get fucked or honestly suck and inter-personal interactions that span longer than a few weeks.
Me? I know people from both camps, and the subsidiaries included in both. I myself am asked for advice when things don't seem to add up, which is what spawned this brain stemming of thoughts. I'm running on a 0/20+ losing streak, so it's strange to think that a person would trust my judgment on the matter. Even when I thought I had it right, I just flushed it with indifference, so how am I going to fix, or aid in a resolution, to their predicament being an outside source with only observation and bias to judge on?
Don't get me wrong, I'm flattered and I give my two cents and feel it to be pretty good. I shoot straight, don't set up a idol for false hope and in the end, I feel that regardless if they're happy with it or not, the advisee walks away with a dose of expectations gauged for reality.
But back to the point, how can those so jaded from the idea of a healthy relationship become sages with a wealth of knowledge that others can be so hungry for? Is it the idea of mistakes making a person understand better how the cogs of a mechanism fit and churn? That seems to be the only way it makes sense to me. A man who builds explosives for a living is going to learn fast what is more volatile aside from what isn't. And maybe that's all relationships are when we get down to the core, a concoction of elements that mix well or not at all. Then the ones that do depend upon their storing and environment before a disastrous black cloud is looming over their cinders and ashes.
It's just a though, anyway.

There are times when I hate social media. Mainly because I care very little what people on the majority have to say. It's a bunch of intersecting lives/lines, the next thinking itself to be more interesting/important than the one before it. And on and on. And what I do is no different, don't think for a second that I don't know it and that I don't buy into it on most levels that I can get away with.

The times, they are a changing.

I think it's strange that people who have more failed relationships that successful ones, are usually giving advice about dating. It's like the more you fail at it, there's comes a strange reverence that comes with the repetitive heartbreak.

It's a thought that's fairly difficult to articulate my thoughts on, like most things in the field. Seems like most of my life has been spent studying the effects of the opposite sex on myself and the like-minded. And the further I get down that line trying to distance myself from lonely, but only succeeding in bringing it closer, I realize that I ride a fine line on wanting a family and wanting to drink myself to death all alone and bitter at some ripe old age.

We'll see how this plot thickens.

Loneliness is a disease, or so I think sometimes. Only staved off my a simple connection. A reason to wake up in the morning. But since my connections are all temporary, I find my medicine in bottles with black labels and that's okay with me.

My drunk life, I realize, has become a sad satire of my sober drinking habits about five years ago. It's strange how people claim they mature when they really have tendencies to follow their own footsteps.

An enormous shadow spreading it's fingers out over my whole imagination and choking the life straight from it's child-like gait. That's all this ever seems to be sometimes. A super massive black hole come to swallow it all up. Forever.

I am convinced that unless you're a cute girl, no one gives a shit about what you have to say on the Internet. Well, that or celebrity.

It's that time of year when I reflect that only a mere 7 years ago today, I started to take on the considerable burden of heavy drinking. And though I've faltered here and there, I still stay the course and remain true.

I really think, sometimes, that I'm retardedly destined to only find random actresses and musicians incredibly attractive. I hate that.

I sit with beads of shower water rolling down my head wanting so badly to write, but not knowing where to start.

You know what's sad about comics? It's that eventually, the writers (and maybe even the artists, but it's harder to tell) lose that boyish charm the more they write and the more successful their titles become. This isn't about a sad state of affairs for comics, it's just a thing I've noticed. Nothing that's so detrimental that it'll kill a creative medium.

I just hope that I never lose that excitement about writing. I hope that years from now when I actually get a belly of work under my belt that I'm still just and jolly and entertaining as a kid that's jut excited to be putting something colorful and original out into the world.

That's all.

Contemplating being clever is not as amazing without a good delivery. Turns out that all I need is a bit of attention in place of true connection, so I guess that leaves me exactly where I am.

And who exactly do they all see me as? An inventive person or just a person that I've invented?

I have done nothing in the ways of forward accomplishment since I've had the Internet at my fingertips constantly.

There's just something about feeling like your close to where you need to be.

Interesting things are afoot, so beware.

It's fucking ridiculous that my stomach is turning this much from someone that I already knew I'd never see or know again. But somehow I'm feeling all those things she left me with. It's settled, she must be a wizard of some sort.

In other news: I am not actually straight up gangster.

I guess I don't leave much room for anything besides loathing when a relationship has run it's course.

And now I have better access to this, so I may stop scribbling furiously in small notebooks like a strange hobo.

If I ever used names then you would know who I was talking about. No one ever needs to know who I'm talking about until it's sewing circle gossip time.

DREAMS

The first one is inconsequential, but worthy of writing down. Shia LeBouf was playing Invincible in a self-titled movie, except he had no powers and was still killing/fighting Viltrumites. At some point, I was hime and took part in the fight - and felt the need to prove that I didn't need powers to kill them, so I went for the eyes, but when they started to squish, I quit because I was grossed out.

Also: Mark had a sister in my dream named Teresa or something similar.

The second dream requires a bit more to report:

     I'm walking down Bardstown Rd, in front of Great Escape wearing my tan trench coat and a normal outfit with something clutched in my left hand and my messenger bag over my right shoulder. At some point I'm accosted by three very attractive girls and end up riding around with them and their criticisms. They comment about the outline of my junk in my jeans, call me pretentious for carrying a video cleaner (thing in left hand) and call me "uggio" (which isn't ugly - just that I dress too young for how old I am), I start to be defensive and mean, which only amuses them until they see fit to release me at the spot where they picked me up.

Why is the easiest, and most enjoyable, part of creative endeavors the outlining process - for me, anyway. It's just fun for me, especially when a plot weaves itself together and intersects all on its own without any effort, like it becomes this living, breathing thing. I've come to notice, as well, that thinking of fiction as a creature is a romantic way of thinking, but it absolutely makes sense. To breathe life into a character or story and have it control you and tell you where it goes next is a profound, and slightly eerie, experience. And I love it.

It's becoming clear to me that before I can move forward, I have to put them all to bed. Maybe I'll get some rest then.

Sometimes I wonder how much worse it could be to die than fall in love.

I always say I'm gonna start tomorrow, when I should just start today... after I watch this movie.

I think I've come closer to realizing the extent of my assholism, which I'm assuming is lumped in with why I'm conceited. Anyway, the point is that I expect people to know that I'm always good at what I do as long as I know what I'm doing. And when they question me - my immediate response is to coyly belittle them, fuck - that's my response for most everything - just varying degrees of berating.

I think there's a more devious type (or two) of women that I immediately fall in love with. The more I know, the easier it will be to stay away from them.

How do you tell someone that they were prettier when you were drunk... and horny?

What is that moment after cumming all about? Where the realness of the world just smacks you all at once and immediately your life to that point is summed up in some form of guilt.

A couple of days ago, my aunt told me that my face was too pretty to hide behind a big, grizzly beard. Turn's out, joke's on her.

At Subway, teenagers working and being teenagers. I don't miss it. Their gossiping techniques are very unrefined. Also note: don't try to write and drive, it may be more dangerous than texting behind the wheel.

Don't cut my heart with this subject, it will bleed profusely.

I thought the house was driving toward me, but it turns out I was only driving toward the house.

I've got dreams in Nyquil castles.

How delusional and detached from reality do I have to become before I feel fine? And how safe will I be after that?

DREAM

SCHWINEZ.

The only thing I've wanted to talk about at length for the past couple of years is you, and how much I did or didn't deserve things. But now that all consuming blaze of whatever has stifled. I don't know what to do about it.

I always used to like to pretend that I was older until I was too old to pretend.