Happy Birthday to me. I am 32 today.

I've spent the last month running around crazy, barely sleeping and losing track of my thoughts. I had my mother-in-law's birthday party, then a run back to New York for a funeral, and then the meet here. I can feel the strain starting to change my ability to remember things or focus on tasks. I've tried to keep a better eye on myself the last few days, but it is always easier as a concept than as a procedure. This little issue is emblematic of the last year. I've been burning shit at both ends for way too fucking long.

Quite frankly, this last year sucked and I blame myself for that. I was a fucking mess. I invited drama on myself and drove myself insane trying to answer too many questions at once. I fed my dislodgement from reality with a fervor that is usually found at tent revivals and midnight book releases. I'm surprised that I didn't do something so stupid or insane that there was no chance of recovery.

I think I had a nervous breakdown at the end of last August. I took a week upstate to see if I could sort my head, but it only caused more confusion and heartache. Last fall was a lot of broken thoughts while I reached a semblance of normalcy in the middle of the storm. I spent a lot of time on the deck out back, chain smoking in the middle of the night and trying to out think myself. I hid in the office, trying to find definition in work and not thinking so much. I wrote a bunch of daylogs about living in Michigan, hoping to take away something from those stories that might help me sort out my head. I emerged a bit in the spring, but I don't feel like I'm entirely back to whatever normal was this time last year.

I quit smoking again, this time out of a sense of responsibility and a vague understanding of a greater good that I should be inspired to reach for. Although this motivation was suboptimal when it came to internally powering through cravings, it has so far proved to prevent me from completely breaking and running back to my addiction. Some days are better than others, and I've learned to accept that there are compromises to be made along the way. I could be doing better, but I could also be doing considerably worse. It will be six months since quitting in another few days.

And here I am now, trying to get through all of that still. I don't know how I'll shake out yet, but at least I have started to think about what the next steps are, and where it is that I want to be. I've decided to reevaluate some of the things in my life that I had been taking for granted. I need to weed out some of the bullshit that makes me crazy, and search out anchors that will keep me from drifting off again. I need to be less cynical and nihilistic, and find things that interest me and make me happy. It is at a conceptual stage right now, and maybe I don't know what I'm talking about here.

But I have to start somewhere.

it's been a little while so probably you thought i peaced out but GUESS AGAIN, necromancy is here to stay. so im sure youre wondering where ive been and i can sort of tell you but some parts are secret and can only be divulged to those within our dark order who show themselves by drawing the profane SIGIL OF ASMODEUS in the ground. it is a symbol so enfused with dread energy that looking at it makes normal people lose a bunch of spirit energy and sometimes get dizzy or just confused. (it is like a demon face inside a pentagram but kind of abstract.)

in case you didnt notice i said "our order" because i passed the summoning ritual so i am a journeyman necromancer now. i talked about it in another entry here: June 5th, 2010. i dont think i can explain exactly what happened because that is giving away the secrets of the ritual but i will say that when the appointed hour struck i opened my soul to the darkest parts of the underworld and from my third eye and eigth mouth and my hand energy portals and all of my other magical orifices flowed nothing less than the ENERGY OF DESTRUCTION. the DARK SPARK grew to a cacofanous roaring flame and even the high priest that came all the way up from Birmingham was saying "how in the world does he have such power??" so i can only think my previous attempts to get spirits to lend me their power effected the ritual.

now that i am in the order i have access to more powers but of course i have to train them. Vincent Von Androalphus (i wrote about him on June 7, 2010) can shoot lightning bolts from his hands so i wanted to do that one too. so i am practicing, but you have to start really small and use static at first. so for example i rub a balloon against a sweater and then i touch a doorknob to discharge the energy. now im not an idiot i know that is SIMPLE SCIENCE and that is a static electricity that happens. however i use dark power to channel that static discharge so it is stronger than normal. also i can hold on to the energy longer. for instance if you build up static and you dont touch the doorknob well tough shit because after a few minutes it wont shock anymore. but i can go for two hours already without touching the doorknob and then make the shock later. Vincent Von Androalphus says within a month i wont need doorknobs or sweaters at all and i can just shoot lightning like Enperor Palpatine from Star Wars.

i will keep you all updated as the epic unfolds. for the record, you can try the spark training at home yourself. its pretty safe until you start getting bigger sparks and by then youll know its time to seek a professionals advice. until next time.

It becomes increasingly more difficult to sleep with each additional thought that enters your mind. It is 5:58 am, and my cup runneth over.

I don't really know what to tell myself about the thoughts that play themselves out over and over again as I patiently wait in a dark room for sleep. The memories seem almost disturbingly recent - most of them involve Trey, or Josh. Some of my inner rants are things I wish I had the courage to say. Some of them are things that I wish I had the cowardice to forget. Most of them end with me angry, sad, and gnashing inside. Sometimes I think about Star Wars, and sometimes I think about writing. I think about writing fanfiction, and I think about writing sonnets about celestial bodies. Sometimes I think about publishing papers about computer science, and the political implications of open-source software, and other times I think about writing love letters to Richard Stallman.

Always, though, I think that it is deceptively difficult to write good daylogs.

It's storming here, the thunder crashing over my head every few minutes and making me crave smoking a cigarette on the roof. This is another one of those inexplicable 6:30 in the morning on no sleep things; I neither smoke cigarettes nor have I access to my roof. There is a certain kind of Keroauc-esque romanticism about the idea though, and that's probably what attracts me to it. It sounds like the kind of thing that an idealistic teenager should do at least once. I feel sort of required to try it.

I wish Josh would talk to me more. I'm interesting, and funny, and smart. I like the things that he likes. We have a similar sense of humour. I wish I were good enough for him to want to respond to.

I wish Trey would talk to me again at all. I know I was hard on him, but he should be able to admit that he was pretty hard on me about the whole thing, too. Why can't we put the past behind us, and forget all the badness? I think we're both optimistic enough to be able to do that.

I'm sorry. I'm always sorry. But can't you tell we're barrelling toward an alien future? Let's go already. Forget all your baggage. Let's just leave.

I often wonder if others realize how much pain I am in. I wonder if they notice how depressed I am, how sad and reluctant to keep living I am. Then I wonder if they see just the tenth bit of this how they sit and ignore my pain. I suppose it isn't their place to intercede into my pained life, but I feel that it isn't my place to interject my pain into their probably fucked-up life. It becomes a bit of a cycle where I stew in my own self-hatred while others let me do it.

Everything in life is my fault. I understand this on a deep intellectual level. The thing that always strikes me is that everyone must want to have something or someone to blame for their mistakes and foibles. I am certain that genetics and divorce, and abuse play roles in my physical and psychological shortcomings, but in the end I should be able to overcome many of these things. What I lack is strength of will.

There is no gun-to-the-head scenario in real life. No one is holding you hostage and saying feel better, lose weight, stop drinking, sit up, get a better job, move to a place that you like, and have friends. So, what ends up happening is that I fall back to a state of motionlessness. Items at rest will tend to stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside source. Let me assure you I am surrounded by enablers. Plus, with a gun to my head I am just as likely to beg for the wielder to pull the trigger as I am to act in any positive manner.

This week hasn't been great for me. This month, Not so wonderful. This year has been little better and much worse than many previous years. This decade, This decade has been a fucking waste of my life. Frankly this life has been a waste of my life. I am certain someone else could have used it much better than I have or will. All I'm likely to do if I survive for much longer is procreate and further pollute the gene pool. I'll probably also consume valuable resources like food, petroleum, and water. I am likely to drink a great deal of good beer, wine, and bourbon whiskey.

Then, when I come to my end, I am going to wreak havoc on the emotions of those who have claimed to care about me. I'm sorry I was a sink-hole for my entire life. I wish I had been aborted before birth, but apparently that wasn't in the cards. I don't have those emotions about loss. Things are here and then they are not. I have a minor curiosity about things dead or destroyed, but I do not know the feelings of loss or mourning. Yet again, on a deep intellectual level I understand that nothing lasts forever. The timespan that something lasts is virtually irrelevant. I may last for twenty-nine years, I may last for ninety, but I don't place any greater value on those additional years.

I would hope that some outside force would dramatically influence my lifespan, but that is unlikely to happen. Sure, occasionally shit happens, but by and large the world I know is incredibly mundane. Which I suppose plays into the old adage that "it is what you make of it." I just don't want to make anything of it. I've lived in a room with white walls all my life, but I've always been to afraid to splash those walls with any other color for fear of retribution.

It is kind of humorous what being beaten into submission from a very young age will accomplish for a person later in life. At least I imagine that is what the punching and reprimands were about. Though, looking back it was almost certainly someone who had not accomplished anything trying to beat the fight and spirit out of someone that they never wanted to show them up. It worked, big brother. It worked wonders. I will never-ever go full tilt toward anything. I will always be afraid to go after the things I want. And I will always second guess my safe decisions. Then when everything goes wrong I will always know it is my fault, and you'll blame me, and I'll agree, but you'll still rub it in.

The one thing I really don't need in my life is more fucking criticism. I know that I have made mistakes and missteps, and I know what they were. I grind them through in my head hour after hour. I consider how to avoid making the same mistake twice. I still do make the same mistakes over, and over, and over, but I know that they are mistakes, and I make them with less idiotic fervor the second, third, fourth, and fifth time. I will never get it quite right. I was wired all wrong from the beginning making me unable to get IT right. I will try though; I'll do my best to avoid failing like I always do, but it will never be enough.

Sound: Boris -- DronEvil (combined)

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