beer and pizza, while delicious, especially with salt & vinegar chips, makes me feel like a fucking bloated heffer cow. i had the hardest time getting out of bed to take a shower... but that could be b/c i'm a little tired as well. time to do some sit ups, or something.

looking forward to workshop tomorrow. woot. then diner-ish with matt afterward, before his punk ass runs off to new york to be all hip hip horray as an MFA student... which kinda makes me sad and envious. oh well.

So I'm thinking about opening my own comic book shop, for serious. It'd definitely be a nice pick up from where I am here, but the downside is that I'd be rooted to area for a few years. And the last thing I need is to be stuck here, but who knows... maybe it'll be worth my while. Right now I'm just trying to think about how to make it better than all the other shops that're open around here, and my first thought was possibly opening a self publication part, in which local artists/writers could get comics published, and maybe use that as a stepping stone toward something bigger. It's a nice daydream right now, but we'll see if it pans out.

I really do hate my job, I might elaborate later, but then again that would be my free time, and the more time away (mentally and physically) would benefit me the most.

Whoa, who knew that you could do this shit from your phone. Guess they're making everything streamlined these days...

i don't keep up with this enough. not that i don't like recording places and times that i have thoughts and conversations within myself. but it seems like i only blog any more to get someone's attention when i can't just bring up the words myself.

but that's not what i'm doing now.

i've just spent hours upon hours revising one story wondering if i'm every gonna go anywhere with this shit. i just joined this writing workshop of people that've been in college for writing, and i've never taken a creative writing class outside of high school. they use this words to describe things, and i only pick up in context what they're talking about. i feel stupid most of the time. and at a huge disadvantage. in the larger scheme of things, i feel like i'm not educated enough to write, like i'm just a little boy pretending.

one of my best friends is going off and abroad (still in the U.S.) but going somewhere to develop and make himself a better writer. he graduated college for fuck sake, and what am i doing? i'm lying in bed all day, smelling like b.o. and revising a short that's most likely not going to amount to anything amazing. maybe it'll get published, i don't know. but i feel like i'm defeating myself because i never gave myself the appropriate means to expose myself to talented individuals. i feel like i've never learned anything about writing from the people who know, because, by god, they have degrees, ceritified pieces of paper that say they know what they're talking about. they've done the time, been put in print and are living the life.

then i remember why i quit. i remember what i believe in. writing isn't something taught, to me, it's something earned. you become a story teller when you have stories to tell, good and bad, happy and sad. my mind has always been weaving these things as a child. i don't need a degree, some special ink, stamped and signed, flammable parchment to tell me how good i am at something. and i don't need to go anywhere to do it. i just need to believe that i can. as retardedly after school special as that sounds. i've also been a writer, albeit lazy. and i feel that if i had gone through the program, reformatted and regurgitated what older, self important people had told me. i would've lost what made my its own. i don't wanna become pompous and worry about publication (although it would be nice). i just have things inside of me that need to get out, need to be told. it's a romantic idea, but it's true. after opening the gates, now the longer i go without writing, the more shut off and agitated i become. i'm like a dam that moans what the waters backing up because the gates are clogged.

i quit because i wasn't happy with someone telling me how to do things, teaching me labels and words describing things i knew how to do on instinct. i decided that i would go about this my way, and do things like the older authors that didn't pay money to get a title they were born with. i've spent all my time lately being slightly depressed, and envious because everyone around me is graduating college, something i should've done years ago. but that's not what i want. i want to be the dumbass that clawed my way somewhere, tooth and nail, to know i deserve where i end up, only on talent, if i have it.

that doesn't mean that i'm not proud of my friends that have chosen their own paths, and finished chapters in their own books. it just feels good to really just get it off my chest. when the modern day says you have to be educated to be an author, i just wanna prove to myself that i can do it the hard way, because i'm a stubborn jackass. and it feels good just to admit it.

and just when your back's against the wall is when all the jaws fall down. the tongues get loose and feel their ways around your neck, fitting like a noose. i wish it were easier to jump, close my eyes and let my feet dangle there, just above the ground, but the words stab me, cling to my skin like burning shrapnel. was it always this hard? was it ever this easy? i fill my belly like i fill my mind, what's staring me in the eye is what it is, i don't try to decipher, but i eat it all the same. the same words, the same thoughts, but when it's regurgitated, suddenly nothing is as it seems. i'm just another prejudiced asshole out with a piece of mind that tears at another with no rhyme and no reason. i'm the evil person here, the bad man. nothing i can ever do is right by another, no matter how hard i try. failure after failure, what's the point of getting back up? the scrapes on my knees and elbows hurt. no one cares. neither do i anymore.

i just wish for a single second that i was important. for one single second i wish i could feel like i could fall back and someone could catch me. just shadows pretending. the world keeps an empty sounds, very hollow. i've never met someone quite like me before, but i guess that's why i can't feel anything, anyone at my back, just when i stretch out my arms, my hands and fingers.

i've got my own issues, i guess. i'm a burden to everyone around me.

well, here's something i haven't felt very compelled to do for a while. why is it that when things are fine or good, i don't feel the need to really document it, to capture for forever? maybe it's just easier to remember, and i can't let myself forget the other side of it.

anyway, here's to you. i don't know where you're coming from, but there's something wrong and all i wanna do is fix it. but it's not happening. i want to talk about it, but when i try, you just say you don't wanna be around me, but then say i don't even talk later on. or you say, we'll talk about this later, but when is later ever gonna come around? the things you accuse i don't understand, but when i point to the instance where it happened, you say, that's not it...even though that's where it started.

and i don't know if it was a guilt trip, but to tell me you cried yourself to sleep when i stayed out late with my friends... what can i do about that? i came home, you knew i was gonna stay out late, but i did what i said... came home. i can remember you going out with your friends, giving me a time frame in which you'd be back, all warm with me. but i can remember two times when you never did, you were too drunk to be considerate and didn't even come home. granted you were with your friends, in the end, and safe, but how was i to know when you wouldn't answer texts or phone calls? i couldn't sleep either, but in the end when you were safe and back with me, i dealt with it. but when i go out, which i hardly ever have without you, and stay til the hours of the night, which you knew i was going to, and come back and answer any texts you send me, and do everything a responsible person does, being as considerate as the situation can allow and more... i'm the one to blame.

then i ask about vague twitter updates and i get some hostile remark b/c i was supposed to assume you stayed up all night crying... what the hell? you acted normal this morning before work, and blow up when i get the first glimpse that something was wrong. you tell me i can hang out with my friends, after i invite you and you decline, then you jump my shit with a guilt wagon when i do saying that i don't wanna be with you, it's how i'm acting when it's not. and you wonder why i never hang out with my friends...

there's so much i want to retaliate with, and point a finger at you, but that's nonsense, i'm just being defensive. and it's pointless. i just want you to understand that i'm crazy head over heels for you, but you can't get that. just because i'm not dancing and singing and smothering you doesn't mean that i don't wanna be around you. i've told you that time and again, i'll always want to be around you. it's impossible to think otherwise.

now, i could come up with my own paranoia, since you know - you're way too attractive to be with a guy like me, but i stiffle those, i trust you enough to know that if you're done with me, you'll tell me. and if you'd be happier somewhere else, i'd respect that, but i'll never be happy anywhere else that with you. i love you, and nothing will ever change that.

i just wanna get through this, b/c this seems to be the only problem we ever have.