The madness of monotony makes me itchy

The madness of monotony makes me itchy.

It also makes for bad things. My mind doesn’t work the same when the body is unoccupied with something. Even as little a something as watching television or washing the dishes or picking my toes. It’s why winter is the least favorite month. I stay indoors. I sit under a blanket on my couch, staring at things. Thinking about the past, not enough about the present, and certainly not the future.

Plans aren’t my strong suit. I once had a plan. It worked out well. Until the bottom fell out.

Sitting here in my underwear, hoping that my tooth stops hurting enough to make it through the day, I wonder why I had to look.

Maybe it all stems from that wandering thought that popped into my head for no reason the other day. Over six years later, standing in a lukewarm shower on a frigid November morning, it dawned on me. She didn’t cry.

Every breakup that I think of ended with both parties crying. Well, except for the first one. But she was a toad.

But the one that “matters” to me. The obsession one. The one that friends are even too scared to say “get the fuck over it” about, she didn’t cry.

And that all of the sudden matters. For days I’ve been mulling over that fact. Something glossed over in the depression immediate, and the depression that followed. The depression is over, but some of the thoughts stay. It’s like I’m Jim Carrey from the Truman Show. Hopelessly wondering about some part of my past. Unrequited love and all. But it’s a sign of mental illness, no?

This latest thought revelation has helped me. I know that my way of looking at life is strange to most. You fall in love with someone, you don’t fall out of love with them. Either you change or they change. The person you were in love with, or the person you were, no longer exists. So, one or the other or both move on.

I think this thought has let me move on. It’s been a lingering thought, that’s been trying to bust out for quite a while now. I didn’t let it until that morning in the shower. A calm came over me when that idea was there.

There’s other things important now too. It always helps. This one is different. I feel it. And I know it. That’ll reveal itself soon enough.

So, what do I do to drive away the monotony? And with it, the evil that is my warped brain? No idea, really. But I’m working on it.

Drinking alone is no longer an option. I do it when I watch a game or cook out. But not when I’m just sitting. I’ve not learned how to open the floodgates of my head without the lubricant quite yet. It’ll happen. Or it won’t. That’s when I’ll finally realize that writing isn’t my thing. It’s been too long since I tried to write something other than a journal entry anyway.

Those cats on my stoop. They howl at night. I’d let them in, but they don’t like me. They just stare in disbelief or jealousy. Not sure which. Not that it matters to me. Or them.

Two glasses – Abita pint glasses – sit on my coffee table. They both are dirty. They both have apple juice in them. Apple juice used to be my friend. Now I’m told it has arsenic in it. Guess I’m full of arsenic. So don’t try to kill me that way.

My boss is a homophobe. He’s also a terrible boss. I’m going to close off the work world starting today. I want to leave. Need to leave. And the excuses for still being there are about as sturdy as dollar store paper towels.

I’m out of Pop Tarts. That makes me angry.

I haven’t shaved in two weeks. And while the sight of me is quite awful, even to mine own eyes, I don’t do anything about it. It just seems not worth it at the moment.

I don’t like being a passenger in my car. I freak out. It has to only be the fact that I don’t own it yet. And won’t for quite a few more years. I wonder what that says about me? I trust someone to drive it, yet I don’t like it when they do? Control freak? Nah. Just an idiot whose values are a bit warped.

Can you tell I struggled to make it to the end? This story had no meaning. And the rambles at the end were just that, blank rambles. Getting back on the horse. It’ll take some time. Maybe it’ll take a shot of whiskey or three. I just know it feels better this way.

A story? That’s the next step. Gotta involve the road, bars and redheaded women.