The Problem With School Is That It Doesn't Teach You To Be A Human Being.
The problem with school is that it doesn't teach you to be a human being.
More Posts from Mistahsojourner and Others
What the fuck do I call this?
If you know where the dream ends, you’re being watched.
If you can find the seams, the stuff you jerk off to that you don’t tell anyone about is being written down by a government agent who is slowly falling in love with you.
You make the nipples of their soul hard enough to cut diamonds.
I clear my throat, “Look. This is bullshit. See, the beginning of wisdom is being able to tell where the dream ends while at higher frequencies. If you can do that, shit will be less scary.”
See. There were moments here. Undeniably. Some of it was bullshit. Maybe most of it was bullshit but some of it was not a dream. Sometimes I heard right. Sometimes I heard just right.
That song I know. That I heard somewhere. One time.
Yo man. I don’t know how I feel about that song thing, man.
This is garbage, isn’t it?
Maybe. There were moments though.
There were moments you thought I kinda had it.
Maybe.
Maybe.
Maybe.
The audacity.
to try to utter the unutterable.
Holy shit, I better stay in my lane, right?
The crowd builds messiahs.
Nobody is insane enough to believe that about themselves unless they are high 24/7.
I don’t gotta worry about that though.
I’m not that good.
This though.
This is courage.
If you tried. Fuck. That’s cheesy. Good night. You know what I’m getting at though, right?
Seriously though. Good night.
Checking in
I’m checking in cuz I got nothing better to do. It’s Friday night and I got nowhere to go and no one to see. I’m down here in the room I rent. I’m down here in the only sanctuary I got from the outside world. It’s pretty bare and it’s got nearly everything I own in it. I’m very well aware of the fact that the world could be fucking me in the ass a lot harder than it currently is. I’m thankful that it isn’t fucking me all that hard.
I’m the office’s computer guy and I live in mortal fear of the technical issue that will make me just fucking quit. I’m okay at computers. I don’t live for ‘em. I think I’ve said before that this computer thing is the only skill I’ve managed to figure out how to monetize.
I live with strangers. I see one of my roommates nearly every day. It’s usually right when I walk in the door. He’s a young guy in his late 20s. He wears a beard. He’s an auto technician. He’s a fan of the Houston Astros. He always says hi to me. He’s okay.
Survived a stressful period. Shit felt like the Odyssey but that’s bullshit. It was terrifying but it wasn’t all that interesting. It’s one of those mundane things that fucking terrifies you.
I’m just writing. I’m not trying to make anything pretty. Just felt the need or maybe I tell myself I feel the need so I can feel fucking special. I’m not special. Some day I’m going to be okay with that or maybe I fucking won’t.
My diet has been so incredibly shitty my entire life that I’m genuinely shocked that I’m still alive.
I barely know how to wipe my own ass.
Do I pat myself on the back for making the effort?
My attention span is piss poor. I wish it wasn’t.
Fucking porn bots like and follow me. That shit is depressing. Porn bots are sad. You think, a kindred spirit but no it’s “Veronica” wanting to introduce you to all her kinky friends.
So yeah. I’m 36 years old and I left my parent’s house for the 2nd time. It ain’t paradise but I feel just fine about it. No Trump propaganda to try not to hear. That makes a world of difference. That shit is poison for the soul.
That’s all I got.
This track always goes right to my heart for some reason.
“The borders should be illegal instead of the people / That were here before the Bible and all of its sequels.”
Kinda tempted to make an NSFW blog. Yeah. Be more open about my freaky side.
It’s tough to write things that aren’t just things. I’ve never put together a shopping list but I imagine that’s fairly easy. I mean, I guess it’s easy if you got the cash to cover it, right? It’s just a list though. You write down what you need and that’s it.
Trying to write something that’s pretty and honest and makes someone cry or fucks with them or makes them angry or just mildly annoys them, that shit is nigh impossible.
It’s Sunday. I’m not high. I don’t even wish I was (that much.) Nah, I’m indifferent to the fact that I am not high. I love being high. I dig the feeling of focus, how easy it is to smile, how sometimes it puts me in the mood for some love, how it can help me flip on a flashlight and descend into the dark cave of my feelings but I don’t need that all the time even if tomorrow I gotta punch a clock and it hurts to think about.
If you’re reading this and the above paragraph worries you, please don’t worry.
It’s misting outside. It’s gray. I dig it.
Sometimes I think I should just drop all this and be a man. Learn to be alpha and all that shit.
I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that my soul or whatever the fuck it is is the soul of an artist. My medium happens to be words. I hesitate to go around saying that shit because that’s pretentious as fuck.
I got an appointment with a psychologist at the end of the work day tomorrow. I never really know how to prepare for those. I hope I can get something out of that.
I’m afraid of women. I don’t know how to fix that. I have been for my entire life.
I think serial killers are not interesting at all. Serial killer groupies are pathetic. All this media that dwells on serial killers is propaganda that justifies heavy-handed policing. Fuck police states.
I’m a weirdo but not in a particularly interesting or novel way.
Been kind of a brutal weekend for me.
Didn’t know that I was going to be dealing with a sick dog. All of that wrecked me. Think I got my cry quota done for the next week.
I’m exhausted. I feel beat up.
I’d take a hug or two.
That dog is hanging in though. She is this adorable thing but god damn, she’s tough.
I think I’m way too up in my feelings right now.
I’ll get back to you.
I’ve been trying to read more. The journalist Seymour Hersh was on an episode Intercepted (By the way, if you listen to podcasts and you do not listen to Intercepted, you need to be listening to it.) and he said that before you write, you need to read. Of course, Sy Hersh was talking about journalism but it applies even if you aren’t a journalist.
I’ve been struggling with reading for a few years. One thing that has helped is reducing subvocalization when I’m silently reading. No, I’m not becoming some kind of freak who is obsessed with speed reading but it makes things flow a lot more smoothly if I am not reading shit to myself in my head. It never occurred to me to try and cut that out. It’s something that I’ve done since I was a kid but no, I don’t need to do that. I can just sort of look at the words and fit everything together. Almost feels like a superpower actually. It’s weird. I’m re-discovering a love for reading, I think.
I randomly bought a poetry collection to expose myself to verse. It’s garbage.
Love this track.
Day started all chill and then all of a sudden everything was on fire. Had excitable bougie folk to the left and to the right of me. I’ll spare you the details. It’s really not important.
I could pat myself on the back for surviving all that. I could say I’m tougher for having gone through it. Fuck that noise. I’m not.
I’m just glad that it’s over for the moment.
Tomorrow is the 4th of July. I’m just thankful for the day off of work. I don’t plan on celebrating. Fuck nationalism. The only thing I’ll really be celebrating is waking up and being aware of the fact that I’m not punching a clock. I’ve spent a lot of national holidays sitting at a desk in some ugly-ass, depressing office somewhere with a headset on waiting for phone calls. There is a tone in my ear and there is someone terribly surprised that someone is actually working. Some would even comment about how terrible it was that I was working on the 4th of July.
God damn it. I spent way too long answering phones. I will forever be bitter about that. I’m never getting over that.
My brain is fried.
