After I sat on the couch all day, sipping and inhaling and watching science fiction, I considered why I don't get anything done. I find I prefer living in fantasy, in surreality, in a distinct, distorted, disassociated version of existence. A correction: It's not so much that I prefer previously described existence, it's that it seems preferable to knowing what truly is reality. Ignorance is bliss. Ignorance is easy; the exact amount of apathy required for lack of all cares. It isn't that I believe in ignorance or escaping reality but that, in times, I have practiced such. After work, I reflect only minimally on: calling my mom back, my relationship with my girl, my musicianship, my workmanship, my alcohol-consuming ability, my smoking habit, my regular bowel movements, my flatulence, my stinky feet, my wrinkled skin at the age of thirty, my grey hairs at the age of thirty, my supposed best year of my life at the age of thirty. I, I, I, me, me, me. So many instances of "if only" and not enough of "I have done this." This right here, right now while you read(or shortly thereafter) is not my first realization of knowing I feel I ought do more. However, it may be a more honest admission and actualization of said admission. You. Are. Welcome. Welcome to be a part of a constantly continuing, often small and lengthy growth of my life. Now, I feel I should introduce myself. I am a thirty-year-old male, smoker, drinker, wannabe artist/musician, bartender. You can reflect on, judge, hypocriticize, empathize with, sympathize with, relate to, hate, disagree with or despise me and what I do. I feel too much or at least more than I would so desire, and so, in turn I desire to feel less or at least not so much as I feel so I spin myself cyclically in circles debating to me what came first? Depression? Or the dredge? #rant
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