It’s about the second time I’ve done it, but it seems to set me up for these near-real dream sequences. Just awoke from a 12 hour nap mmm. I fell asleep at six oclock yesterday post feasting on my meal (consisting of two hash browns, six pizza rolls, and curly fries). I’m barely awake now, but I felt like some creative writing might make me feel better about sleeping that much. I’ve been in such an odd state lately- truly something I’ve never really experienced. It’s a combination of pointless nostalgia, finance-induced stressed, and the constant, constant, CONSTANT craving for another cigarette. Let’s break this down for you, shall we?

P O I N T L E S S. All nostalgia is pointless- I mean what good comes from it? Either deep sadness or this shallow feeling of “miss” you pretend you have because your life is terrible. Regardless, I always say  to stay out of the past- there might be some good treasures hidden somewhere, but along the way are the fucking memories that you avoid and pretend aren’t there. Such as, but not limited to, ex-loves, illegal mistakes, waste-of-money purchases, memories, when put in perspective, was a complete waste of your energy and time and you don’t understand what made you so happy at the moment, “dreams/goals”, and so on and so forth. This nostalgia, and it’s leech-like roots, originate from these terribly real dreams I’ve been having. It’s odd- I had a coworker at work today, One Mr. Rob Patterson, who told me a story about one of his dreams. Let me tell you- he does not dream like you and I (well at least not I), his dreams have depth, details, characters even- memorable ones. During the duration of the explanation (of the information of his communication ha!) I thought to myself, “Why can’t I dream about that?” Envious to say the least until I realized I do (only when I sleep 10+ hours. fucking weird) do that. It’s 5:14 AM right now- five fucking oclock in the morning. Barely morning.

Anyways, where was I going with this? Oh yeah- these forced conscious (and subconscious) nostalgic moments I keep having are keeping me from moving forward. So what am I to do? How do I forget something that I want to, but supposedly subconsciously not ready to forget? Stupid bitch of a problem. Let me get back to the insanity of dreams. So maybe people do have characters, plots, and a whole spiel in their sleep-mode brains- but I certainly do not. Sometimes I feel like my dreams are fast forwarding- which results in this blurry take on actually happened. Certainly the reason why I never remember them. God there is nothing interesting about my dreams. God there is nothing interesting about your dreams, either. Ho ho and what I doing? Formless, stream of consciousness sort of writing. Blogging at it’s best. I wish I had structure because I almost feel like blogging is just the lazy man’s second option to a book. It really is, but it’s a start. So what did you (and I) get out of this jargon filled paragraph of dreams and nostalgia? I have a memory I’m trying to shake. I want to get a better understanding of dreams. I want to write a book.

Anyone that knows me has known that I’ve been in debt since I first entered a wrong birthday (instead of a 12/28/1990, I punched in that motherfucker that I was 12/28/19EIGHTYNINE) on purpose to get a credit card AND got it. I even gave them my social security number, but I got accepted and unexpectedly started my credit when I was 17. I had it down to 600-650 even before I was 18. I’m different you know? Ironic? Independent? Ha. It really only got worse from there- I took on new credit cards like a new challenge, and signed for leases like I was movie star autograph-ing sheets of paper for sad, rage-filled housewives that finally made it out to P.F. Changs with Carol down the street. I hate housewives- well no, let me rephrase that. I hate housewives- ah god damn! There’s no way around it so let me elaborate (haha for all you offended people who want (or will be) dream to be a housewives with all its glory and children’s shit). It’s laziness, truly. No matter how fucking dumb you are at whatever “college” you attend, you have goals right? The depth of your goals may be arguable, but nonetheless your “goals” are there (somewhere). I’ve met individuals who love kids, LOVE kids and dream to push those suckers out and raise ’em like they’ll do any difference to this downhill world, and you know what that’s perfectly fine. It’s unselfish and you have set the expectation bar WAY over- the contents of a good goal. Dem bitches I have problems with are the ones who have their goals listed as the following:
1. Psychology major
2. Tim’s wife and the mother of our kids
Now don’t get me  wrong, I’m not a feminist or really care about that stuff. If you estrogen-driven wondergirls want the same bullshit as the “men” do, prepare yourself because it’s happening. Start tangent- Gays? Why do you want to immerse yourself in a culture and tradition that have left SO many straight people broke, broken down, and divorced? You guys (and lesbians..) are the future. Keep your flamboyance down and your head up. End tangent. Anyways, what sort of second option is that? And for most, it is their secret, hidden, in-closet option that no one can know because it’s 2011, “you can do anything you want” (absolute bullshit. you take your trust fund, throw it into a education system that’s corrupt and only out for one thing, pay for your spring break trips to poverty-stricken countries that have that ONE resort you just gotta get to with your best buddies because you can drink underage, and the rest? the rest gets blown at your corporate run college town stores) You can’t do anything you want. You can barely do what you need, let alone what you want. Anyways, housewives? You don’t have the hardest job in the world. You weren’t required a degree, you got to choose when you started to work, no application, no interview, work at home, and you can (will) get fat and no one will say anything because your peers will slowly turn into elementary school kids and “creative” ideas for you do around the house. Get a fucking job lazy ass mothers (fuckers). Be something.

Anyways, about my finances? I’m thousands (upon thousands) of dollars in the hole. I realized on the red line yesterday that I don’t worry about the big things- at all. Whether thousands (upon thousands) of dollars of debt or eviction and being homeless. No no no you know what matters more? The completion of this blog. Yeah, that’s more important. The small things hit harder. Pardon that, and here we go! I suppose I’m contradicting myself because now I’m going to talk all about how fuckin’ poor I am. Though I haven’t hit rock bottom, yet, but don’t you worry, audience, I’ll accelerating towards it. With great great increasing velocity. Fuck that, I don’t want to talk about my finances. I’m poor- I’ll get over it. You’re most likely not poor and eventually you get over that. We all die and not everyone can get over that. Focus on that for awhile-

Ah which brings us to the cigarette..

and relax.

I have structural problems and I hate proofreading.

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