I wanted to stop by and say hello. The holidays are fast approaching and I'm writing to you in a letter, with pen and paper, on a page from my notebook, next to thinking patterns and consequential behaviors, and a writing assignment on lack of self-respect I've yet to tackle. I know what you're thinking: who do I think is going to win it all this year? Well, it looks like the Cowboys are primed to run through the NFC, but the Giants have got their number. We're currently sitting first in our division, but we gotta make sure we beat the Ravens in the upcoming weeks. I have a special place in my heart for Russell Wilson, the quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, because he looks like Michael from The Wire. My counselor gave me a book called Out of the Shadows—I've yet to read it. It's nice to have two sports now, and dispel old bullshit anger. I'm sorry I'm not more eloquent; although I'm finally feeling some hints of creativity.
This place has helped me slow down my head. They say my thoughts move so rapidly that it jumbles me up. That made me feel really excited because they say that's the mark of a genius. When I talk to women, I make sure to speak superfast, but sometimes I'll trip over my words. Sometimes I'll find myself pacing about outside a group of people, and I know that makes me look really attractive.
I checked my stats recently. There were no homeland pageviews. I'm frustated that I can't help leave room for the fantasy. I try to double-bag, but my hands hurt—opps, I sound like Brooks in my head. What I like about my Steelers, other than the emblem, the unsavory aftertaste of saying Rothslickburger, reminds me of our familiarity with another country, and that's a nice transition to help me hop back onto that pogo stick of life. Again, I apologize for my syntax—I wrote that phrase in a more cohesive fashion in some notebook, some months back, but it doesn't really matter.
I have been feeling antagonistic as of late. In groups, I felt a nagging compulsion to tell people that I'm better than them. It's a defense mechanism my mind uses when I think people ignore me or dismiss my input in a crowd, but it ends up leaving me disconnected from everybody; and the things I thought I felt, they were never even there. I guess therein lies the problematic thinking. I told my therapist about Rachel, although I don't think either of us understands it. When I look at a picture of her, I feel like my mom does looking at that photo of Oreo.
Something strange happened that fought off the irritability which usually starts the relapse cycle. I shared at a meeting that I had been living in a bubble, wherein I was this humble hero in my own narrative, but I don't even like you. People came up to me and told me they felt the same. In group, we meditated and Sarah asked us to write what the meditation meant to us. I wrote that meditation is stupid and yoga people are snobs and they only use yoga to be flexible while they fornicate, and it was received so warmly by everyone in the group. They laughed and said what a good writer I am and I didn't know what to do with myself, as I only read it out of spite to tell them that I'm better than them and that they can go fornicate. A girl towards whom I felt instinctually embittered when she shared she used sex as a drug, approached me and revealed it helped her to hear my share. I felt like such a shit. I complimented her on her hair; it was purple. She's probably in love with me now and I paced around her talking a mile a second. I had her head spinning. I can't afford to live in shame. Self-pity for me breeds or excuses lack of self-respect, which leads to freedom, then everything is permitted. I'm sorry Kristen Marie.
The next day, I listened and stayed on guard against judging anyone or straying from the moment. At the next meeting that evening—we went because Kelly is such a beautiful speaker and a beautiful person—I sat in thought trying to compile a great share while she spoke. That's my thing now, the here and now; when people smile at me, I know they like my blog.
My daydreams from years ago are coming back, and I'm so curious and intrigued by it, that I indulge them like when I was a kid. I wrote that day in group, that when I was young, I would often daydream like Jonathan Brandis in Sidekicks. In one series, I was a superhero crimefighter with my cousins, and we lived in a fortress under the forest and rode jeeps with an arsenal of weapons attached—mainly machine guns—and we each had a girlfriend. I remember my girlfriend was sick, and I went to her house with hot soup in the rain, and we started having sex. That was a wonderful night. In another, I was a pro-wrestler. I would design my trunks in my head. I had a good build, but I was never buff. The match in Tokyo against New Japan Pro-Wrestling really took its toll on my career. That was one I lost. But it was one of my classics. We were both on the mat long after the bell.
The stories would continue and develop as I went about my days. And I noted that I've started doing that in group; only I can see the brain damage, as I get stuck in the same sequence over again and draw a blank. I wrote that when we meditate, I see a coffee-table, and I know that someone needs to be body-slammed through it. I know that when someone is sitting with his legs crossed like a four, what he's really asking for is a figure four leg-lock on the floor. On the way back, I put on Xzibit's "Choke Me, Spank Me, Pull My Hair," because the guys here like rap—and that's the song Matt would blast in his V-tech outside of the dorms and he was so serious and now he's married. I put the song on as sort of a joke—he's a good rapper—but I couldn't listen to it for too long when I started realizing the realities of a life that doesn't want me, and that's my sickness, and it all has to do with me.
I have frequent using dreams, and some babe dreams, sad and depressing. I have nightmares about doomsday scenarios that make me appreciate the day that follows. I like it here. I think I'll follow the television curfew. It forced me to open up my notebook; now I need to start reading again so that I can make picturesque allusions and get the intellectual nod at dinner parties.
P.S. What does gnarly mean? I can't tell if it's good or bad.
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