Entertain Yourself

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I come to you live from some obscure little beach town in California that I’m not going to say the name of because I learned from an early age when AOL was your Xfinity high speed connection that you should never mention where you live on the internet, certainly not your address, because killers and kidnappers are just as often online as they are your neighbor, and maybe one of them will get obsessed with the luminescence of your writing and decide to track you down and force you to be a writing slave in their basement, chucking out short story after blog post after manuscript until your hand develops carpal tunnel at the mere touch of a pencil tip because fuck computers, he wants you to do it the old way, the right way–with the daily news.

I come to you live with the daily news, essentially.

No news, really. I . . .

I’m just coming to you live I guess.

Who wrote this script? Diane . . . Diane! I’m not saying this shit it make me sound like an idiot!

Alright, alright, I’m done.

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My Actual Keyboard. She’s Gorgeous.

My juices are flowing, my fingers are itching for some of that keyboard cocaine, and this is what I get for trying to sleep early.

After sleeping 4-5 hours these last few nights, one could imagine I’m reasonably tired. And I am. So yesterday, after another five hours of sleep, I decided I would stay up all day and move around all day just to tire this old freight train of a body out.

 

I literally exhale black smoke, too. It’s the essence of my soul.

I’m done, I’m done, ignore me.

I passed out at 8:30-9 p.m. A new record!

Only to wake up at 1:40 a.m

*Cue canned “sad crowd” noises*

I dreamed about living in a fictional place called “New India” where I had to hide my identity because I was wanted. I lived with a white couple who ran a clothing store in a plaza. We lived in the store. The whole plot of the dream revolved around me putting on proper New India dress and blending into the public. I also asked the man to go back to my house in America and get my Chromebook charger because, shit, I’d forgotten it.

Now I ask you, dear reader, who has graced this blog post page for some reason I’m sure you’re regretting by now, why do I even try?

“Hurr Durr, duh, you try because you need to sleep”.

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Dear reader, you would be of wondrous help if my I.Q were 20. Alas, it is not (I’m pretty sure), and I am cursed with a general level of cleverness and intelligence that sometimes gets me into more trouble than I’d care to admit. The awesome thing about that is I never get caught.

I’m not a secret serial killer, but I could be if I wanted to. If I had no moral compass and simply rode the waves of my aggression, could you imagine the bloodshed?

Anyone can kill, of course. But only certain types of people can be good at it. Just like anyone can talk, but only certain people are really good at it. Like Hitler.

I tell people they should be happy I’m awkward in social situations. If I wasn’t, I’d be really good in them and you never know what could happen.

You all know I love you right? I love all of you for reading this ridiculous shit day after day, night after night, and finding humor in the torturous nights I’m awake from sunset to sunrise using sarcasm as my greatest coping mechanism in every ounce of this life.

Sure, I can’t sleep and I feel like ripping my hair out and chocking a crow with it, but–

What the fuck? That flew out of my fingers before it was an actual thought. I don’t choke animals. I love animals. They keep me better company than humans most of the time.

Anyway, I’m generally happy at the moment, despite the circumstance. In fact, I’m riding a pretty nice wave of satisfaction. It’s quiet, I have my Iheart radio, and my technology, and even though being alone can curse me with some hardcore health anxiety, tonight I’m not going to let that stop me from enjoying this peace. I feel well rested. My eyes don’t, and my body definitely doesn’t, but my brain does and that’s all I care about.

One of my favorite songs just blasted on Iheart. My night is now complete.

lsd-484533423-resizedThe point is, no matter how annoyed I am with what my brain throws at me–which is weird when you think about it, spending night after night impeding yourself–I love all these quirks. Think how boring my life would be if my parents didn’t think I was on drugs? Think how boring my life would be if I didn’t act like I was on drugs? If I didn’t stay out until 5 in the morning and come home and pass out on my bed for four hours and wake up in a rage?

How boring would life be without my rage? I love my rage. It’s a moment of release.

Shit, Iheart is on FIRE right now son, Daaaaaaaamn!!

Where was I? Rage. I like anger. I like arguing. Contrary to what you may think, I don’t go around starting arguments or tripping innocent people smaller than me on the sidewalk just to start a fight. I’m just saying in the moment I don’t mind the adrenaline rush and the momentary feeling of dominance.

I used to think I was a control freak when I was a child. But I have no urge to control anyone or force them into anything. I just don’t like them trying to control me or force me into anything. We’re all fine and good as long as someone doesn’t try and trample me. Kind of explains why I fight to get to the top of everything, because my definition of someone trying to control me is probably warped and much different than yours.

There’s an educational, empathetic reason I want an M.D and there’s a primal reason I want an M.D.

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No matter what field I’d study, I’d get my Ph.D in it for the partial satisfaction of knowing there is no greater degree.

Obviously a little piece of paper signifies nothing more than the years you went to school and the so-called training you received. It doesn’t reflect your true intelligence or any of that bullshit. The dumbest people can have Ph.D’s. 

So can the smartest.

I knew a girl in high school who sometimes outperformed me in A.P English because she was a quick poetry interpreter. She was good in Chemistry and physics and literally everything you threw in front of her.

So she was good at reading books and having people tell her what to think and how to do a problem. But my God, she was the dumbest motherfucker I ever met in my life. Even her friends made fun of her for being so book-smart and so . . . dumb in literally every other area of life. Anyone can memorize the meaning of Renaissance English words, anyone can learn Physics and Chemistry, and Microbiology, but if you can’t put that knowledge to creative use, than how smart are you really? Instead of standing on the shoulders of giants you’re just kissing their ass and stepping in their footprints. 

Have you ever tried whisper-singing German lyrics to a song while reading and typing in English? It’s fun as shit.

See, I entertain myself. That’s why I love me.

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