TempusFugit

And so I find myself here, once again staring into the abyss of uncertainty and doubt. Doubt feeds depression. Lack of money feeds doubt. Lack of control and restraint drains money supplies. Depression, and the desire to free oneself of control and restraint brings momentary happiness, but only for a short while. Then, they lead back to doubt. Vicious fucking cycle. Circle de Diablo.

And all that.

It is up to ME to find the way out of this, to take responsibility for my actions, to strictly limit expenditures. To eat cheap. Not to go out. Save… save… save…

But how do you do that in the middle of a teeming metropolis? With friends who want to see you, whom you want to see? How does that work with a girlfriend? God. How does that work with a girlfriend? Which fucking chick is going to want to be with a guy who can’t even take her out to fucking dinner? Ah, there’s the depression…

It set in hard while running today, three miles up La Cienega to Sunset and back. I cried, had to stop running. Had to summon the fear, the disgust at myself, the Engine. The Engine, that fountain of anger, pity and spite that chimes in, sometimes loudly, sometimes not. It dulls the edges, hazes out right and wrong, diminishes pain. It keeps me in a constant state of despair, focused, driven anguish that somehow keeps me going.

Am I becoming too bitter?

Have I passed the point of no return, and am now incapable of really being happy? I hope not. I hope that all, no, I will work to make sure that my worst fears do not come to pass. That I retain a working position, or attain a new one, one that will allow me to ease the strain of massing debt, instead of steering me slowly toward it.

Not to point fingers, and not REALLY to misplace blame, but I never truly learned how to deal with money. Hell, I didn’t know what the fuck credit cards actually were, how credit card debt worked, until I was three grand in the hole. And then there’s the giving nature, the desire to see everyone having a good fucking time, fuck the expense. Wait, bro, until you can afford to do that. Don’t risk your whole future on this coast, don’t jeopardize everything you have, have worked for, for trifle friends.

For that is what many of those I met early on have turned out to be. Not worth the steam off my piss. But, eh, was fun while it lasted, right? It was, but not that fun. Maybe within the fog of drugs and delusion, inside the faux warm underbelly of communal society.

But it has given me the means to find myself out of this financial predicament. By writing about it, by putting it to word, making it fun, hard to read, I can claw myself out of this mess, and live the life I wish to live. Write, fain soul. Please. Eschew Them for a while. They can take it. Use this month without Her to write. Get it out. DO IT. Fucker. Just fucking do it. Time waits for no man, death rides your coattails, and love conquers all. Bouyah. Lv JP