You know. For me it has been like 1000 pins and needles in my head, sudden chills and tiredness. My wife got it first, and mostly had a terrible sore throat.
The song Creep by Radiohead brings back bad memories. It still hits hard and I hate that about myself.
When I first moved to Vancouver, I went to a job interview but couldn't find the place. I did find a dog and took it home. The dog showed signs of being abused. I never tried to find it's owner and kept the dog.
save money. I always wonder how people do that. Friends who roughly make the same amount of money and have almost the same budget as I do seem to have managed to save money. And I have to have you know that I don't make that much. Some of them even have their own family and some of them are the only one in the household who brings money in. I have no money but debt. What am I doing? How do people do that? Where did you learn how?
Is it wrong that the first thing that popped into my mind looking at some old tintype photo is Dam that girl looks good.
When I was very small I liked to look through my baby book; see the pictures, the lock of hair, and beautiful cursive in my mothers hand. The past few years I’ve become more curious about my birth. The answer is often that it was a difficult time and it’s best I not know. Not know what? The baby book mysteriously misplaced, and as I age and become more self aware I notice a concerning trend in myself that causes me to wonder, what happened?
music on the Weather Channel soothing. Sometimes I just have it on while I work and hang out.
I joined one of those neighbourhood buy-nothing FB groups that has generally been really good. But there’s one guy on there who is so overwhelmingly irritating that I’ve left the group because of his posts alone. He’s just such a colossal moron and I wasn’t able to stop seeing his posts or stop him from commenting on mine. Every time I saw his name come up I would physically shudder.
I confess that on the occasion I either pick up, or someone gives me an art catalogue, I don't actually read the text/essays in it. Instead, I just flip through the pictures and then stuff it somewhere on one of my bookshelves. Art language/writing is - for the most art, and at least to me anyways - nothing more than inaccessible and posh (in the arrogant sense) drivel. I love and appreciate art; but, the crap critics and curators are prone to pennig at best can put you to sleep, and at worse exorcize demons - I swear. I do not think I am lone in thinking this way either. One needs either to smoke a tonne of crack or guzzle a bottle of throat and brain-burning Icelandic potato vodka before taking a crack at understanding some of that stuff.
Speaking a new language is challenging. Even harder when I’ve never heard it spoken around me before. I read the books that talk about the language and I hear people talk About it, but no one really speaks it. Even when I do come across concrete vocabulary it’s hard to remember the words, phrases and let alone when and how to say them. I want to be heard, understood, and acknowledged. I hear it’s best to be immersed to truly make progress with it. But where does a person go to learn how to speak with boundaries?