I am filled with rage this week. I don't know why. I feel as though I'm about to have a serious breakdown. I had a pretty decent one last night, actually. Matt puts up with far too much from me. Maybe I've done too much overtime at a job which has been frustrating me. Perhaps the jewelry order from Etsy.com was the last straw...though I did find hours of entertainment in toying with the seller today...
But I could just be suffering from winter depression, who knows.
I'm going to burst soon. It's not going to be pretty, and my icky sticky insides are going to be strewn all over the fucking pavement to be eaten by wandering animals and ground into the cracks by the tires of SUVs and bakery trucks. If it was possible to shed your skin and start fresh I would. I'm literally crawling out of this one. I actually talk to myself now. Like, angry, schizophrenic rants in my car. Sometimes I stop and tell myself I'm going over the edge; that I should probably watch that. But then I just say fuck it and keep ranting because it feels nice.
Matt has determined I must go back to school because my mind is eating itself in stagnation. I'm going to have to settle for community college, but I'm poor, so that's really no surprise. I'm always dreaming far above my price range. I'm excited to go, and I'm hoping to start something in the fall. Preferably before I eat all of my opposable digits and have no choice but to create art with my mind. Like those guys with the giant heads that talk through their pulsating veins. I imagine that would be difficult.
When I'm alone I want to sing in a band. I want to tap dance. I want to play the ukelele, the piano, the euphonium and the clarinet. I want to be an amazing art photographer and I want to paint. I want to get tattoos. I want to speak Japanese fluently. I want to be a yoga master. I want to know who I am and wear that person on the outside as much as I feel it on the inside.
The thing is that I'm terrified to fail. I'm kind of a perfectionist, and I have this really sensitive ego that constantly needs to be told that it's talented and smart and creative. I'm afraid that I'll go and fail. I'm afraid I'll go and see that I am in fact dull, average, and not cut out for the creative life. That I was really intended to be something atrocious like an accountant or something. But the time has come to make a run for it and try before I go completely mad and kill myself. I'm not getting any younger, and I'm wasting precious time sitting around drooling and second guessing myself. I'm tired of being afraid, but it's hard to actually make yourself do something about it. Confidence has never been my strong point. Frankly, I'm awkward and strange and sort of confused.
That's all, really. Just...fuck.
(I love that word.)
Another drunken blog-rant brought to you by your friends at Booze-O-Rama.