Blah.

I just don't feel like going to Sanctuary tonight. I was planning to go, I even washed my club clothes and started getting ready. Now I've changed my mind. Trish won't be there. Mike's decided not to go. I can't get drunk because of work tomorrow and the annoying fact that I have limited funds. I think I'm better off to save what little I have for when Lorra is in town next week. Why do I feel obligated to go to Sanctuary every single bloody Sunday?

What a freaking pathetic life. Tomorrow my big thrill will be writing an agent to convert personal contact lists from the old mail system to the new one. I can feel this wave of anger and revulsion sweeping over me. Bitterness, would be the right word. Suddenly I don't feel like being the cheery, level-headed one. I feel like ranting and bitching. For fuck's sake I'm going to be 34 in two months, I'm divorced from a dyke, I sit in a cubicle and waste my days on the most boring shit imaginable, my crapbox car is older than some of my friends, my life revolves around going to nightclubs. My last "relationship" was falling for a girl who is completely messed up over a custody battle (note to Sylkweb - if you are going to go it alone, really go it alone, cut the father out of it completely). The one before that was a lunatic whore, literally - ad in the back of the West Ender and everything - $100 for a massage and a hand job and four different pills just to make it through the day, who lied to me from beginning to end, and I let myself be lied to because I am a pathetic, lonely shit.

There are things I can do about it, I know. And I'll do them. But right now I just want to scream FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUCK!!! Trish always runs away when I'm not feeling cheery, Ivana has big enough problems without mine (which is part of the problem), Lorra sure as hell doesn't need me whining at her, so here it is. I'll hang my dirty laundry out on LiveJournal and tell Tharsis about it as I type (he is named Tharsis for a reason - he is my cat Tharsis). If anyone tells me I should see a therapist I'll punch them in the head. I mean it. I've learned enough about psychoanalysis on my own and in school to know that it is a bunch of untestable wanking bullshit. It's all inductive and doesn't stand up to Falsification (per Karl Popper). If I'm going to listen to unscientific speculation about what's going on in my head from someone else I'll talk to a good astrologer - at least that pseudoscience has ten millennia of refinement behind it.

But look at me, I can't even bitch about how I feel without going off on some obscure tangent. I'm a fucking joke. In fact I am such a joke I am a character in a sitcom. I'm Ross from "Friends".

You know what I pictured at this point? I was going to have a café gallery that I ran with my wife. My kid would be tearing around annoying the customers. My art would be hanging on the walls and there would be plush chairs and booths that I made with my dad and I'd be sending money home to my mom. And where am I? My [ex]wife is a dyke, no kid (thankfully... God! If I had had a kid with her...!), my father is dead, my art if piled in the corner of my apartment and I haven't had a show in two years, and I'm into my mom for $2500 and I sit in cubicle looking forward to the Friday doughnut cart to come around. This fucking well defies the laws of physics by sucking and blowing at the same time.

I'm just annoyed. I've let myself get fucked over by greedy, selfish women. I've let my life careen down the slope of least resistance and ended up in a rut because of it. I've let people who would be confused by a simple syllogism influence my decisions. The only reason I've ended up with a fucking computer "career" is I know how to think and solve problems. But these are someone else's problems. I don't give a shit anymore. Time for it to be about me.

So there.

Oringinal post: http://mbarrick.livejournal.com/28237.html