Tired, tired...all the time tired. I wake up, I'm tired; I work, I'm tired; I go to class, I'm tired; I'm relaxing, I'm tired. I'm always tired!

Wow...type the same word 8 times in a row and it totally starts to lose it's meaning.

Or maybe it just seems meaningless 'cause I'm so damn tired.

I am ashamed to admit that I went to the little drugged-out hippy store last night, bought myself a 24 cartridge box of nitrous oxide, and consumed the whole box within four hours. I guess I was feeling sort of insecure, because I had a date the other night (officially a first date, but we had hung out enough already that it seemed more like a second date) and even though it went well, I still felt like a complete psycho. I'm really not mature enough right now to enter into a relationship, and I need to focus more on my sobriety; however, he seems like he's comfortable with just being real casual right now, so hopefully this won't take over my life and change me into a different person like my previous relationships did.

I feel like I'm being really random, and leaving out alot of information that would make this entry more comprehensible to other people. The thing is, is that I don't really know what's going on with me, with him, or with relationships in general, so there isn't really much that I feel comfortable saying. It was the same thing when I was with him, when we were lying in his big white bed together after going out to the bar. He wanted to know if I had a good time, if I liked him, and other such things. I fear I may have offended him, 'cause I said nothing, and he probably took it in a negative way. The truth was that I was feeling very negatively about the whole situation, but that I didn't really trust that feeling, or want to express it; because I know from experience that the idea of getting close to someone and entering into some sort of romantic involvement with someone is really scary to me, and I start to freak out in an uncontrollable way. At the time it feels real, like I really do hate the person, and really do just want to lash out at them. Later on I allways regret it, and wonder why I treated them so badly, when in fact I like them so much (like in my relationship with The Talker, who I treated really horribly the last night he was in town, but who I still talk to every couple of weeks, and who I'm quite fond of). When I had hung out with him (I guess I'll call him The Social Worker) the first time, about a week before my date with him, I really liked him alot, was quite attracted to him, and really looked forward to getting closer to him. Then, when I got my chance, and we were actually together again, I spent the whole time being defensive and angry. It was crazy, and I knew that, so I kept my mouth shut. Hopefully next time will be better.

Yea! Magic has reentered my life again! My annoying world of dull, awkward, misplacement has been realigned and gently invigorated by good news and good directions. What happened, you ask? Umm...it's hard to describe. All I'll say is that my class schedule sucked, but now, with a few changes, it's totally excellent. I'm now signed up for two very interesting classes (Fiction Writing and Poetry writing), and one mildly interesting class (History of Englsih).

The magic was in the signing up process. I had never really seriously considered taking a poetry writing class before, because I hate reading poetry, and even though I enjoy writing poetry, it always turns out to be annoying and pretentious when I go back and read it later after giving myself time to forget what I had written. Not so with my other writing, which I'm not always proud of, but which I always enjoy re-reading, and usually see potential in.

Well, I was thinking about the poetry class, because, quite honestly, it was the only thing out there that I felt was even slightly calling my name. It was calling to me softly and indistinctly, but at least it wasn't a stranger or an enemy like all the other classes were. I didn't want to answer back, but I was lonely, and needed some comforting, so I comtemplated taking it. Eventually I decided that yes, I would take it, but only to learn how to pay attention to the sounds of words, and the intricacies of sentence structure, not because I wanted to become a good poet. So I signed up for it, and it felt right. I felt that I had at least made one good decision, and that I would happy in at least one of my classes.

Ok, so here's where the magic comes in: the second I signed up for that class, and I mean the exact second I signed up for it, I was automatically allowed into the Fiction Writing class that I was feeling so despairing about not getting in to. Like, I was looking at the registration screen not five minutes before I signed up, and it still said that I was on the waitlist. Then, I signed up for the poetry class, and all of sudden there were no more waitlisted coures, and the Fiction class was on my schedule. Beautiful! Perfect! It was like...it was like the universe wanted me to take the poetry class, but it knew that I wouldn't even think about it unless I was desperate for some fun. The second I finally wised up to the plan, all obstacles were released, and I was allowed to go forward in the direction I'd been struggling to go (albeit with a slight modification). Truly it is a sign, and this is a good day.

I hate cleanliness.
I hate math.
I hate dance music.
I really hate Teflon.
I hate organization.
I hate possesions.
I hate politeness.
I hate represion.

I am not getting along with my new roommate.
I am regretting deciding to move in with him.

Something very sad is happening to my blog: someone is creating little advertising links in my entries. If you see any link in my blog that is underlined twice, then please don't click on it, because it's just an sleazy advertisement.

I feel really violated by this. First people are leaving little "comments" that are really just ads for ceramic vases and what-not. Now someone is actually altering the text of the entries themselves to make links to god-knows-what. Even though I put this out on the web, and let pretty much anyone read it, I still do think of this as my personal diary. It's not political, and it's not made to promote anything; it's just for me to express myself, and keep track of what's going on in my life. I really feel offended that it's been fucked with by some greedy jerk. I guess I'll contact the good (I presume) people who run the blogger website, and see if they can help me stop this from happening.

I went out to play pool and sing kareoke with Mark tonight. I sang "Higher Ground" by Stevie Wonder, and "Bennie and the Jets" by Sir Elton John. I drank a little bit, and even though I had a good time, I felt rather alienated by the crowd at the Eagle, which was mostly young, bitchy twinksters. I didn't really think that my aliention was getting to me so much, but later on I was very rude the guy at the fast food joint I went to afterwards, and now I've just sexually acted out, and in a public place no less. To be frank, I masturbated through my clothing in the computer lab, which is where I am now. It's 4 am, so there's only a couple of people, so I could hide what I was doing pretty well; but still, it was wrong.

I went to a website that allows one to do readings with my favorite tarot deck (Morgan's Tarot, perhaps one of most lighthearted tarot decks out there), and asked for specific action I should take in order to help overcome my sexual addiction. It gave me the "Stop" card, which basically just has a picture of a stop sign on it, and which basically means just what it says (there isn't a direct link to the card, but if you go to the site and click on the link that says "The Cards," you should be able to find it in the list). Well, I guess that's good advice, but if I could just stop, then I would have done so long ago, and I wouldn't have to be going through this whole 12-step thing.

Speaking of the 12 steps, I recently wrote out a sexual history for myself, to help me more fully realize the 1st step. The idea is that having the evidence of my sexual compulsivity right in front of me will make my powerless more easy to realize; but, to be honest, I don't really understand. I still feel like I have power over this, and that I should be able to stop just by wanting to stop. I guess just sort of understanding the 1st step is good enough though. What I'm really worried about now is the 2nd step, which seems even more difficult. I have no sense of religion; in fact, I kind of hate everything having to do with religion and spirituality. I'm supposed to meet with my sponser tomarrow to talk about it, but I have absolutely no idea what I'm gonna say. Well, perhaps I'll gain some good insight from him.

I try to write, try to work on stories that I started in the past and never finished, or try to start in with working on new ideas, but something always stops me. It's this darkness within me, this void. It sucks away my desire to create; or my desire is there, but I'm convinced that I won't be able to create well, so I give up. The obstacles are too insurmountable; I just don't have the ability.

But whenever I go back and read the stuff that I've written before, I allways really enjoy it (my fiction, that is, not my papers for school. Those always make me cringe). If only I could finish something, follow that inspiration until it leads to the end, instead of changing my mind half-way down the road, convincing myself that the journey is not worth the taking, that the town I'll end up in is a shitty little rat-hole that I'll regret coming to.

I was talking to The Talker last night, and he told me that he had spent all weekend working on his game, the game that he created, and is in the eternal process of expanding, and which is well loved by a good-number of people with a little bit of disposable income. He got, he said, a year's worth of work done this weekend. He doesn't get writers block, he said, he just decides ahead of time when he's going to work, and then he does it.

I really envy him that. The only time I can remember feeling that way was a few months ago, when I took some over-the-counter daytime cold medications that had strange stimulants in it. I took them for two days in a row, and I wrote two shorts stories during that time, both completed. Both of them were pornographic. I went back and read them, and neither of them really turned me on so much, but one of them amused the hell out of me. The feeling that I had when I was writing them was this driving need to get to the end, to make what I had in my mind come out complete on to the paper. I really enjoyed it (though my hand did hurt from all the furious scribling with my pencil). I wish I could get that feeling back, without taking drugs. I wish that that was just what I was like in my day-to-day life.

I had horrible nightmares last night. I dreamed that, because I had once been on psychological medication, I had lost my rights in the eyes of the law, and could be institutionalized against my will for very slight infractions. During my time there they gave me electro-shock therapy, attatching thin wires to my wrists and my third eye (the point in between my eyes in the middle of my forehead). Due to the shocks, my mental illness got much worse. I remembered, both in the dream and in reality shortly after I woke up, sweating in fear, that my Dad had been institutionalized when he was a teenager, and had gone through the same treatment.

This is, in fact, true. He was institutionalized, and he was given electro-shock therapy (in an entirely inappropriate manner). I don't doubt that my Dad was sort of crazy when he was a kid, but I wouldn't be surprised if any feelings of paranoia and of being persecuted weren't given strong reinforcement from the horrible and malicious treatment he got from the different psychiatrists and psychologists.

On Sunday night I went to the Tradewinds and danced, danced, danced, all night long. It was magic, my dancing: I was perfectly in sync with the pounding beats, the crazy electronic noises, the flashing lights, and the bustling crowd. It was like I was having one long subtle orgasm all night, with every movement propeling the pleasure forward, until I was nothing but pulsing sensation and delicious emotion. It was perfect. To top it all off, a cute guy even complimented me, and told me I was a good dancer. That made me very happy.

The sad part about my night out is that I tried to use my credit card to buy a drink, but it was maxed out. I have 40 dollars in cash to last me 'till monday, when my financial aid comes in. The bartender gave me my drink for free (a shot of tequila, with salt and lime, which the man from Venezuala sitting next to me encouraged me to buy, and then patiently watched with bemused indifference as I went through the licking, slurping, and sucking ritual), but that's all the drinks I'll be having for awhile, it seems.

I had an interview for a job today, at the Fees and Deposits office here at OSU, and it sounds like I'll probably get it, so my money problems should soon be a thing of the past.

I don't know if I mentioned it in any previous blogs, but I started chewing nicotine gum instead of smoking, and I'm getting really good results from that. However, because of my lack of money, I'm having to go back to cigarettes for a few days.

When I was involved with The Suburban Pothead I had absolutely no ambition beyond living day to day and being happy. The reason for this was because I was in love. It was totally enough excitement and fulfillment for me to come home and hang out with him after work or school. I required nothing more beyond that. Yeah, the idea of doing other things was attractive as well, but only as accessories to my already completely satisfying life.

For a few months after we broke up I was still happy, because I was still in love, even if I couldn't be near the object of my affections any more. It was like he was an especially potent and long-lasting drug, which took several months to wear off. When it finally sunk in that he was really gone, and that it was pretty much my fault, I crashed pretty hard, and felt quite bad; however, I was still happier in that misery than I had been before I met him. Was I still in love? Yes, and to some extent I still am now. Would I go back to him, if the opportunity presented itself? I don't know...we weren't exactly good for each other. I'm not really concerned about getting back to him. My experience with him showed me that love is possible, that love is undeniably good, and that it is the most essential element to my potential happiness. Even though I don't really have love anymore, I am satisfied just knowing that I can have it, and that I probably will have it again one day. The only times when I really don't feel good any more is when I start to think that maybe I'll never be in love again, or that my love will always be frustrating, unrequited love that just leads to painful conflict, not the stable, fulfilling love that makes life complete.

God I want to fall in love again. I don't know if I'm really ready for it, or if I could be mature about it, but I still really want it.

I'm thinking of acting out today, in an unsafe way. I don't really want to do it, but I do want to get off. Actually, I just want to be social, and I can't think of any other way to do that. If I just went out and tried to talk to people, than I believe that the only people who would want to talk to me anyway would be people who want to have sex with me, like that would be the only motivation that they would have. So why not just cut out the middle man and just go cruising?

I don't understand how people make friends. I mean, I have a couple of friends, but I don't understand how I got them, and I don't really know how I'm supposed to go about getting more of them. I mean, ideally I would have some sort of pleasurable social interaction every day, but I can't rely on the same three people, over and over again, to give it to me. I just need to have more friends.