S Pink Premium Pointer Bio-Tagebuch (nur 3% Fantasie): [insert fitting title here]
People used to remind me that "not everything's either black or white", but that doesn't mean they don't exist.
Because, where is all that grey coming from?

Dienstag, 9. September 2014

[insert fitting title here]


I'm pathetic.
... and exhausted.

I can't really do anything (again) that doesn't remind me of something. Something that used to be nice. Something what I once considered the best thing that ever happened to me. Something now turned sour, painful.
Last week I caught up to season 5 of "Supernatural". In one episode, Dean and Sam are getting played by Gabriel (the trickster) once more. He puts them into different kinds of TV shows and forces them to play "their" role, such as surgeons, game show participants and so on. It's one of two mostly funny episodes which Claudia showed me about 4 years ago when she introduced me to "Supernatural". (The other one was concentrating almost solely on Bobby ... I think he was plagued by vampires or something, and there was a possible-love-interest neighbour who was trying to get to know him while he tried his best to keep the truth about his job from her in order to not scare her off.)
Anyway, I was already having a hard time not to think about her while I was watching the show over the past weeks. And now ...
I have a similar problem with "Game of Thrones" (also a show which I wouldn't have come to know and love if it wasn't for Claudia). Almost every time I watch the show I have to think back when we were watching the first season at her place. My reaction to certain scenes pop into my mind, and then her reaction to my reaction and so on. Same thing goes for a considerable part of the music I hear. Even when I watch "Doctor Who" I can't help but to wonder if she watches it too and what she might think of it. Hell, I watch "Breaking Bad" and have to think about how she mentioned once or twice that she was looking into it but didn't get hooked.
The fact that I'm sitting here alone in a room, as it has been for over 3 years now, doesn't make it easier. There's nothing to distract me from my thoughts and feelings, which makes them all the more difficult to bear. Also, I want to share my joy with someone (literally) close to me. I want to talk about all kinds of nerdy stuff, and not just via social networks. I cry myself to sleep pretty much every day/night, wishing for nothing more than someone to just come and take me away from all this, or at least take away the shit that's going on in my mind.
Not gonna happen.

The M.O.M. keeps pressuring me more and more lately. Since I haven't been to the AMS (the Austrian social service department for the unemployed) for a couple of months, naturally the cashflow stopped. Now it happens every so often that the door to my room opens and I'm to be woken by a lovely voice, sounding, "I NEED MONEY! WHERE'S MY MONEY!"
Honestly, I'm at a loss for words at every attempt to describe how that ... person sounds to me. Try to imagine finger nails on a blackboard, combined with a bunch of crying babies, one of those rat-like little dogs that won't quit barking in an annoyingly high pitched tone, and the crew from "Jackass" puking their guts out. That's the closest I can get to painting you a picture of the accusation orchestra that I don't dare to call my mother. Exactly what I need, no?
A part of me draws some satisfaction out of the circumstance that she doesn't have a clue about what's going on with me, even though I'd sometimes wish to tell her straight to the face what a disgusting piece of shit she is. As much as I try, and as much as I'm boiling inside as soon as I just hear her breathe, I can't get around to hating her. I don't hate her. I simply don't care the slightest little bit about that woman. She could drop dead and I wouldn't care. And if the worst things would happen to her, I ... I'd be happy. ... Well, maybe I do hate her ... a lot. Enough to wish the rest of her life to be a living hell for her, and I'm gladly doing my part to make it so - albeit very passively, but still. I wouldn't wanna have it any other way with that abhorrent creature.
Some of you may be able to relate. Yet even I find it extremely harsh of a child to say something like that about a relative or any other person for that matter. Fuck it, it is how it is, for reasons.

Somehow I felt the urge to upload some scetches and drawings I made on DeviantArt, and if it's just to leave a somewhat bigger trace behind in this world. Some of those are several years old, and you can even tell by the stained paper that I'm a heavy smoker and love coffee.
These two are my personal favorites:

(Please note that I've never visited any art school or courses. I just scribble on a piece of paper every now and then)

I like to use ballpens and pencils the most, for there has never been a drawing that I didn't ruin by trying to add some color. With ballpens, there're no second chances - every line counts. So I think that I'm "better" with them than with pencils, because I have to, although I prefer not to work "under pressure".
I still "got it", but I rarely draw anything anymore. I find it difficult to find something to draw. When a picture happens to pop into my mind, I give up often enough before I even begin, because I know that my skillset is insufficient to make the picture look on paper like I see it before my mind's eye. Additionally, I didn't find the time and the patience to put a lot of effort into practicing - too many games, TV shows, movies, music, internet, ... .

Something in me hopes that this will be my last entry. Sounds awfully melodramatic, I know, but that doesn't make it less true (also it wouldn't be the first time).
I tried to imagine what it would be like to talk to my younger self from ten years back or so. Not good. Only resulted in even more self-loathing. I just want to be left alone, but I don't want to be lonely. Yet trust issues and fear of loss make me keep my distance to people. I'm damaged, fucked up, and I have absolutely no clue why it had to come to, and has to continue to be like this. Headaches are getting worse again lately, and ain't no orgasm without shedding a tear or two.

It takes years, if not decades to make something out of your life, but your whole world can get turned upside down and be put to the torch within a split-second. Then you get told that it's your own damn fault, over and over again. Still, you're supposed to just keep going, keep trying.

How?
Why?

You're running out of faith and strength. All it does is hurt, and there's no such thing as a guarantee that it will ever get better, despite of what some people tell you.

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