I hate myself. I don’t mean it. I mean I hate that I’m either only annoyed or frustrated, or isolated, alone, and depressed. Perhaps it is the bipolar. Perhaps it is the manic depressives that I surround myself with, my capacity to change always for the social group I’m with, my fundamental lack of self. I am unfulfilled. I’ll say it and scream it and flail it and bleed it or some such, and I’ll certainly not grow out of it, or so it seems at this point. So I’m stuck with it, with me, that is, and that’s depressing since I so desperately want to break free from myself. Which is why I drink. Which is why I stopped drinking—the fact that I drank. Reason enough, with my personality. It’s just that the self blaming, self victim shit really does get old, especially when on repeat and especially when there’s no earthly reason for it.
NYC. The ever loving having made it city. The place where you go to become something you’re not. A perfect place for the delusional, really. Fuck Vegas. We are in the mirror twisted panorama of human fantasy right here, in this little hip long island, where authenticity rages and ersatz is bespoke.
The point is not above. It is not the critical. Only production matters. And production—of anything—is quite difficult.
Try it sometime.