when i find life raining down on my parade and the everything around me feels as thought it's suffocating me, and it's hard to just come up for breath, it's hard to fight back the tears. it's difficult to accept what is, and in my haste and desperation, it is too easy to ignore my better conscience and make rash decisions. ahhh...life. shit.
this is why impulsiveness and vodka (or any alcohol for that matter), just simply do not coexist in spite of our drunken convictions that they do. because when you wake up the next day and your head feels as if it's going to explode, the reality remains the same.
sometimes it's impossible to just concede to the absolutness of life, especially when you're trying so hard to ignore the truth and fight the uphill battle. you cause yourself so much grief when what you know in your mind is something you're still trying to convince your heart isn't true. and, it is when your perfectly good judgment between the war of "knowing better" and the "state of denial" in which resolution cannot be found that we too often find ourselves doing the things we do. and i realize in doing the things we do that too often we find ourselves knee deep in shit because of our asinine decisions. masochism.
sometimes reality is hard, and sometimes accepting reality can be painful (not that the hangover from all the booze you've consumed isn't painful), but there's a difference between the cards we are dealt and choosing to deny what's tangible by leaning on our friend alcohol. don't get me wrong. this isn't a lecture. i still advocate drinking, and sometimes drinking heavily. my point is, that being a masochist on every level is not just preventing me from ceasing to hit my head against the wall repeatedly, it's making me a fucktard.
why? i mean for fucksake...WHY?! it's not just about me acting like a wounded child, it's about why the fuck i even care so much in the first place that i have any feelings in the first place. i should just find that "on-off" switch (in which i use to rely heavily on), where my emotions are concerned and start utilizing it more frequently. maybe then i wouldn't give a shit about anything and my life would just be so peachy queen. maybe then i'd find my selfishness again on a WHOLE new level and not give a flying fuck about the cards that are dealt me and the walls that seem to be crumbling around me.
why do i even give a fuck? that is the question. i feel like i always have to premise all of this by saying, this isn't about being scorned or bitter because it's not. it's the fact that i'm thirty-fucking-two and why i kick myself so hard in the ass when i should just throw up my hands and say, oh fucking well. maybe if i gave a shit ton less then all of the here and now, all the shit raining down on my head would not even matter. if only life were that simple. if only it were as simple as not being a perfectionist or a control freak or being my own worst enemy. if ONLY.
we hang on to our pasts. i hang on to my past. and for what?! so i can perpetually torture myself with being a fucktard? fuck that. i wish i'd wake up tomorrow and not caring would be so easy a feat. i wish i'd wake up and find satisfaction in screaming to no one. i wish i'd wake up and not wish to go right back to bed or wish that i could start drinking at nine and not be labeled an alcoholic. i'm tired of being an adult and having responsibilities. it hasn't necessarily cracked up to be what i had imagined. go figure. i mean, i am fairly diluted when i choose to be so i should have seen this coming. fuckmotherfuckerfuckshit.
i should go to bed now. i'm sure i'll re-read this later and think that sleeping would have been a much better decision than bitching because i'm not sure how much sense i'm making. fucking work. fucking adult responsibility. i want to be the coddled, spoiled brat asshole kid who i'm going to have put up with tomorrow. gotdamnit.
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