I finished Invisible Man yesterday and now I’m starting On The Road. I’m a little over five chapters into it and I’m really liking it so far. I’m trying to work on my grad school writing sample, but for whatever reason, I’m having a lot of trouble getting words on the page. I took at least a week off from it, hoping I would get back to it with a clear mind, but I still can’t figure out where my story is going. I think I just have to write, regardless of the quality. It’s only a first draft so, I’ll power through it now and revise like crazy after.
I’m also having trouble writing posts for the blog. I think I just don’t have the energy. I’m working at Target, going to the gym, playing basketball, and now I’m writing articles for another blog once a week. I was going to write something related to an article I read about a 3 year old and a WWII vet who became friends and unfortunately, are both moving away from each other, but the article itself is a good enough story. I’m going to find a prompt and write something for you guys. Let’s hope it’ll be halfway decent….
It’s been an hour or two later since I started this post. I figured since I’m tired as shit, the theme will be someone who is–tired.
Too Tired for a Title
I haven’t slept for days, but that doesn’t stop me from doing what I have to do. What do I have to do? Good question. Nothing. I don’t have anything going on today. I don’t have plans, nor do I plan on making plans; I’m too tired for that. Right now, I just want to sleep, but I’ve already slept for at least–I don’t know–ten hours? Probably closer to thirteen, but who’s counting?
Now, why haven’t I slept for days? Who knows. Work’s a bitch, like always, always causing me stress. I can’t deal with other people. I think that’s why I write. It’s true when people say it’s a solitary job, writing. I rely on no one else but myself to write, but I can’t make a living out of it. I mean, yeah, all I could do is write, and one day I might get published, but I wouldn’t be living until I’m a huge success. There’s no middle ground in the writing business. I either make it or I don’t.
The problem can’t be just work though. I put up with people all the time. In fact, I actually like being around people outside a work environment. I can’t stand people while I’m working; big difference. Well, why aren’t I making plans with any of the people I associate with? For starters, they don’t call me, so I’m not calling them first. It’s not that I always have to call first. It’s quite the opposite. They usually call me first, but for some reason, unbeknownst to me, I blow them off. I don’t hate them. Sometimes, I just like to be alone and for whatever reason, I’ve been doing that more and more. Why? I don’t know. I’m just too tired to figure out, or care.
That’s not true; I do care. I care a lot, actually. I want everyone to like me, not hate me. They’re going to move on if I don’t start going out of my way more, and I definitely don’t want that to happen. Without them, I’m nothing. They’re my source of inspiration. Everything I write is about them in some sort of way, either in the story’s entirety or if there’s just a side character who serves no purpose but to move the story forward or to distract the reader from the trouble the protagonist is usually conflicted with.
So it’s not my friends. My family, maybe. Well, my father’s always stressful to be around. He’ll probably give me a heart attack before he gives himself one. He’s so content with being miserable and it radiates off him. All I have to do is stand in the same room with him on a certain day and my day is ruined. I can’t blame him for it though; he’s got a lot on the table. There is always a legitimate reason for him to be upset, but sometimes–in the least self-centered way–I wish he could just control his anger better. He knows it’s an issue, but he does nothing to fix it. In fact, he embraces it, in a melancholic sort of way. Freud would have a field day with him.
But, I haven’t seen my father in a long time. Like, three weeks. I haven’t even called him or heard his voice. Maybe I miss him? Well, yeah, but not enough to be depressed. I still love him despite the bullshit he puts himself through. I’ll always love him too. When I’m really feeling like a shitty person, I imagine him dead, and I can’t stand the thought. I brake down and barely forgive myself for thinking such awful thoughts. Without him, I’d be nobody. I wouldn’t be a writer. If I wasn’t a writer, I wouldn’t have an idea what I’d be doing with myself. I wouldn’t be writing this. And you wouldn’t be reading it either.
It’s not my friends and it’s not my father, and it’s not work either. My mother usually does her own thing, so it’s not her either. I love her just as much as my father, and she’s the polar opposite of my father. Always going out of her way to make sure we’re all okay and just overall, a positive influence on my life. It’s definitely not my mother. I haven’t talked to her in a long time either, so maybe I’ll give her a call. In the meantime, while I’m on the phone, I’ll go back to figuring out why I can’t sleep.
Could it be that there is just simply no reason? Could I be thinking too much? I’m infamous for over-thinking things. Well, let’s think about it (pun intended). Outside of work, friends, and family, I’m a nobody. I don’t go to bars by myself because I’m worried about seeing people I’ll know, and then I’d worry about what these people are thinking of me, and why I’m at the bar by myself. I don’t have the energy to deal with that.
Maybe it’s a girl, or the lack thereof. I don’t know any girls that I’m not friends with, which is a huge problem. If I know the girl before I hit on her, I worry because she knows what I’m like and that I’d just be putting on a show for her. Then she’d realize I’m fake and wouldn’t even want to be friends. I’d have nothing. Besides, I value our friendships. Why would I want to ruin that? Would they really be ruined though? Probably not, but it’s not worth the risk. Speaking of women, my mother picked up; she says hi.
I do wish I could find someone though. Someone interested in the things I’m interested; someone who can put up with my shitty sense of humor; someone who knows I’m not good with relationships, and will put up with that too, because despite all that, they care–genuinely care–as much as I would about them.
I’m going to be honest with you. I have no idea what’s wrong. Maybe I’m like my father, who was like is mother, who worried about whether or not she should be worried about something. Maybe I’m just an asshole who doesn’t appreciate the things I have, that other people could only wish for, like a job, or a family that does in fact care about my well-being, or a group of friends that I’ve known for fifteen years, or the fact that I can call myself a writer. I’ll definitely go out of my way more to appreciate the little things in life, but right now, I’m just too damn tired.