My ex broke up with her boyfriend. Jolly for me, you’d think, but I advised her to get back together with him. She’s better off with him, and I already said goodbye. Took me long enough, but apparently I did. From here it can go both ways: either I’m fucked for another year, or I’ll be able to finally cut loose from what’s been cracking my skull for the past 15 months. I’m quite scared, to be honest.
There is a branch in underground graffitti art that is called "Ghentism". Seriously. For some reason Ghent has its own unique style, especially in sticker and stencil art, and less, but still so in pieces. A recent addition to it are the Soulwax advertisements and "LOST" stencils, both painted on the pavement. I’m not sure if they are related somehow, I don’t think so, but I do know that the LOST ones made a very strong impression on me. It’s just a word, in generic font, painted onto the sidewalk. It seemed to me like a question, as if it wants to leads you the way. I searched for details I’d have missed but I found none, which disappointed me. I could use some directions once in a while. I wouldn’t follow them, of course, but at least I’d know how I’m doing.
I was planning on getting me new safety boots, checking if my camera was in yet and hopping by the copyshop to design and print some cards to give stage managers that were as enthousiastic about my work as the one from the Coldplay crew. Instead, I stayed at home and did absolutely nothing but having to live with a mental case, and myself. And Why?? Because thousands of belgians, including the worthless lazy bastards of the local public transportation company, think they will get anywhere by going on strike.
"To go on strike" in dutch is "staken". Staken literally means "to cease". As in ‘Staakt het vuren’, which means ‘cease fire’. Any dumb shithead that ever held a rifle knows damn well ‘cease fire’ means ‘stop firing’, and not ‘go run in the line of fire of those that are shooting at eachother’. Belgians however, are the superior superlative of stupidity. Look it up: It’ll say Stupid – Stupider – Stupidest – Belgian. They put up blockades so that other citizens, who have a family to feed and don’t care about all this BS, can’t work either. That’s a goddamn violation of the right to work that is just as important as the right to go on strike.
And why are they going on strike? Because the belgian government raised the minimum retiring age by a few years. It is nescessary to compensate for the aging population. Oh Noes! Thousands of belgians rise up and go on strike!
But what is the point of a strike, anyway? By stopping your work you make it impossible for your company to work properly, so they miss deadlines and lose a lot of money in a scary short amount of time. The management quickly freaks out and agrees to any terms you wish. But the unions that go on strike aren’t targeting their companies this time, but the government. As if they care! This isn’t going to cost them a single cent off their big fat paychecks, so who will be paying for the damage done to the economy? Easy: the government just throws tax money at it. From Tax Payers. Like You. And Me. Fucking retards. And now, if I’d run into an orgy in progress or anything, I won’t have my camera with me. Oohhh but I will find them. I will hunt them down, to the last. single. one.
My leg hurts like a bitch. It makes me feel so stupid I could just sit and laugh at myself. I was merrily shooting through town on my bike, when I got distracted. As I said, it was stupid: a shop I used to know that moved some time ago, and I wanted to see what happened to the building. When I looked back in front of me, I saw a knee-high pole about a meter away. At my speed it was impossible not to hit it, but can’t blame a man for trying eh. I was in the middle of the leaning-to-the-side process of trying to turn, when the bike hit the pole and just, stopped. I launched off and I rolled over my shoulder (I think), either way I ended up on my knees facing my bike. As I was thrown off the crossbar that holds the steer in place hit the inside of my leg, damn hard. I’m just happy I was leaning to the side, who knows where it would have ended up otherwise…
The bike’s okay, and I suppose so am I. The punch just left quite a bruise and it hurts like hell when I move my leg (stairs are agony). They say being crazy doesn’t hurt, but idiocy obviously does. I hope it gets better soon.
The last couple days were very strange, unlike anything I’ve experienced before. And I’m not talking about the stage manager hugging me and saying "You’re amazing, Martin" without even being sarcastic, although I must say that was quite odd to say the least. But anyway. I’ve been sleeping over at "het sportpaleis" in Antwerp. We had to work crazy hours (50 hours in 3 days) doing the Coldplay set and I wanted to get as much sleep as I could. The place has much similarities to a bunker: concrete, flickering fluorescent lights, no windows at all. I never had time to step outside and the only window there was, was where I slept and it was always dark when I went to sleep or got up. So basically I’ve been living without sunlight for 3 days, almost always in the dark (aside from the spotlights at tests and flashlights), cut off from the outside world. My cell phone’s battery went dead the first day so I kind of vanished to the outside world. At times, during breaks, I would sit down and just, enjoy it. No problems, no fuss, just me and the job. Completely unnatural maybe, but very calming.
The down side however was the complete lack of sleep and sore feet from my worn out shoes. It’s not too bad but it’s a big place and I cover quite a distance each day. I think I should get me some new ones. I believe I promised someone, too. And about the sleep, if you do some quick math, (24×3-50)/3, you’ll find that I had 7.33.. hours a day left. Please note that this does not mean I had 7 hours sleep a night. That also includes breakfast, lunch and dinner, and the daily process of rounding up, cracking jokes with the colleagues before they go home, grabbing some pillows from some couch that was standing around, making an improvised bed from them, and trying to fall asleep all alone in a building bigger than the village you live in, that is unbearably hot in the evening and freezing cold in the morning since they turn off the heating system at night. Needless to say I didn’t spend a lot of time making my bed when I got home after load-out, around 7am.
Well, eventually I bought my own climbing gear. I had to climb up the trusses without safety for the last damn time. It cost me a fucking fortune, but I know where the money went when I feel the jerk of the safety line as I fall down a truss. Fuck ’em, the greedy bastards. It won’t be my life that’s ruined before they can’t sleep and do provide proper safety equipment.
I hate inefficient people. Insults to zillions of years of evolution. People too fat to run themselves to safety when it matters, people wearing shoes they can’t sprint in, people worrying about their looks and smearing ghosts of dead animals all over their face instead of making sure they’re mentally and physically fit. They’re inefficient, and they have less of a life than fully functional people. And most of all, I hate little kids, 10 year olds, being a drag, nuisance, and promising to become anything but functional, healthy adults. Nagging, crying, showing no signs of mental stability and "take it like a man" mentality, glasses, fucking bedwetting, it just makes me sick.
And you know Why? Because they remind me of myself. Of my past, of my weaknesses today, and the fear of what I might become in the future. And most of all my past. Little, horrible little snots whining in the bus, wanting candy, and everything to go their way, remind me of myself when I was little, in a way that makes me absolutely Sick of myself. It makes me want to vomit, puke out that little rotten core of shit son I was/am right onto the street, and keep a purified version of the strong young adult I always would have liked to be.
I was a terrible child. Not in the way of doing stuff wrong, but in the way of being a nuisance. ADHD, lazy right eye, and several dysfunctions too embarrassing to mention, in short a dissappointment of a son. Hyper-active little whiney snot that you couldn’t trust to behave in any way or at any time. Whenever someone brings up pictures, video’s or stories from that time, I wave it away. I Do Not want to be reminded. That’s not me, that’s some other little pest. I’m different. I don’t cry, I don’t whine, I have good eyes and I’m relatively calm. I don’t need fucking medication for my brain anymore. No monthly visit to the doctors, no fucking new shrink 3 times a year because last one didn’t have a clue. I was born with a mohawk, 20 years old, medic, roadie, and I can outrun any of you and I know all there is to know about stages. NOT that picture, never was.
But why? Why why why? Why are you so obsessed with functionality? Did your mother die giving you the message of being a lousy son? Was stress her indirect cause of death? Did your father blame you for it, saying "You’re making your mother sick, the way you’re acting"? Did he start drinking so much his kidneys turned to stone? Does your stepmother hate you for the kind of person you are? Does shit happen because you’re not mentally strong enough to handle them? Are there things you can’t lift? Are you imperfect?
I hate fat people. They can’t run to safety if a bus is about to hit them. And the number of overweight people didn’t triple the last 25 years because of their glands, because they can’t help it. High-heeled shoes will kill you and you will cry. Cry because you wanted to look good and it’ll cost you your life now.
So yeah, I got fucking issues, like You and Everybody Else do. I just know what they are and where they come from, so I can write them down once again in an attempt to rid myself of them. Oh but I’m still normal. I’ll just make a remark about your shoes when you get stuck between cobbleones again.
I stopped blaming myself for it all when I was about 16. One shrink knew what to say and when to say it. He asked me to just, give it a shot, tell yourself it’s not your fault. I don’t "hate" anyone, either. I just wonder every day if she can see me, see what I’ve become, and if she would love me for it. I’m not sure I’d want it, facing judgement if I am a good person. I try, and I guess that works just fine.
I’ve been in similar situations. Things like "here I am, am I good enough?" So far they haven’t worked out one bit, because of different reasons. I’ll just keep telling myself it wasn’t my fault.
Situations change, and I change with them. And today, I’m changing again. I had to re-invent myself throughout my life several times, and I’ve become quite good at being someone other than who I am when I’m alone. People call it masks, but I disagree. It’s still me, with the same problems, philosophies and likes and dislikes, just a different face. No mask to hide anything.
But this is no face change. This is different, I don’t know how to put it. I smile more, I look people in the eyes, you could almost say I take life less seriously. I used to be more of a cynic, sociophobe almost. Yes, Even More. Of course, I had bad sides, too. I hope I don’t lose all of me, I kinda like some parts.
The party is a good example. Me organising a party 6 months ago would be utterly ridiculous. But I did it now, and we actually had Fun! We joked, we laughed, shared music and (I So needed that) let it all out on the dancefloor.
We’ll see which way it goes. If you think you’re happy, you’re happy.
It has been discretely pointed out to me that I forgot to formally thank people. Although this isn’t usually the place where I put outgoing messages, I suppose it’s appropriate. I am so incredibly grateful to all those who supported me and made the party what it was. People who helped me play so I could worry about other things for a minute, friends who came over, people who brought their own music, and, of course, the part-time stripper girl from america and others for the MP3’s and suggestions. I’m sorry I didn’t get to play many of the requests, but it was all just such a chaos with so many songs and so little time. So all of you, thanks a bunch. You know who you are. You amazed me.
There are very very few music bands or genres I actually Hate. Music is a lot like art, if you don’t like it, you probably don’t even get it. You don’t know the artists, you don’t know their motives and why they like the music they make.
However, there are exceptions. And one was added to them recently, when I was asked to do the set of none other than the Backstreet Boys. Load-In, Stand-By, Show Crew, and Load-Out. That means, from 8 in the morning to somewhere around the next morning, continuous work. That also means I saw both the soundcheck and show from up close.
Best way to describe it? A bunch of fucking idiots behaving like fucking idiots and laughing at how fucking idiot they are. And especially the little blond one. If any of the pyro (fireworks) would have ended up on his head and set his hair on fire, I would masturbate.
When everything is set up, tested and tuned by the permanents, we locals are no longer allowed anywhere near it. Because it’s expensive, sensitive equipment with wires all over the place and things not meant to be moved or touched once set in place. Because if we trip over a wire, or if we press the wrong button, the place goes ker-BLAM and we enter a world of shit. The show is fucked, the permanents are fucked, the locals are fucked, the permanents’ company is fucked, the locals’ company is fucked, the fans don’t get the show they paid for (you don’t want to tell backstreet boys fans they can’t watch the show), in other words, we are -all- fucking fucked. All… except the artist, who gets paid either way for doing jack sjitt, and has one less show to worry about. So they don’t see why there’s a roadie screaming "For The Love Of Mother Mary, Please Stop That Before You’ll Kill Us All!" when they’re throwing an american football (the egg-shaped kind, I don’t know the name) around the stage. So they ignore him, almost having the ball crash into the Electric System and other places where you don’t want american egg-shaped footballs.
Other than that, they just made an idiot out of themselves on stage during the soundcheck, watched by the screaming fans that won a ticket to it. "Yeah we’re a bit crazy" You Wish, Sucker.
The up side, however, was the 2 hours that my friend/colleague spent watching the fans pour in. As usual, the first ran screaming towards center-stage to claim their spot. But that day was special.
The first one to arrive and cling to the crash-barriers, was actually a guy, around my age. I don’t think I need to draw any pictures if I say he had a funny way of saying "now this is my spot and there’s no way I’m going anywhere."
Then there was a girl (short skirt) who sat down with her back against the barriers, and trying to take as much place for her friends, opened her legs widely. I noticed my friend’s jaw dropping and I think my face must have been something the like.
Number 12 and 13 (or something) were friends, holding hands as they stormed forward. Forest National, the place we were at, goes downhill towards the stage. It’s unique in that sense and the slope can be removed if nescessary. Encouraged by eachother and surprised by the effect of gravity, they soon reached higher speed than they could handle and one tripped. I could almost see it happen in slow-motion. Trying to stay upright, she ran even faster, eventually launching herself forward and dropping squat on her face. My friend and I both winced simultaniously. It was too far off to see if she was actually hurt, but she simply crawled on, on hands and knees, partially dragged by the other who didn’t seem to care if her friend was dead or alive.
It must have been an hour later when my friend noted, "This is making me way too horny, man." The place was filled to the roof by chicks. Big ones, small ones, all colors of the rainbow. You couldn’t just look away, there were girls all over the place. "Don’t look behind you… I think… we’re surrounded." Seriously though, Never in my life have I seen that many chicks in one room. And all that to see 4 total asswipes.
On a side note, we broke the production’s load-out speed record. We tend to do that now and then.
Well, I always said I could do better when I saw those empty dance floors, DJ’s playing the same records twice in 2 hours, and thinking "I’ll just play Smells Like Teen Spirit, that’ll make them happy". And now, in all modest honesty, I think I did. If you can measure a DJ’s success by movement on the dance floor, I beat all of them easily. I’ll be the first to admit, it’s not nearly as easy as it looks. Of course I didn’t expect it to be any other way. But that night I proved that it is possible, not even that hard to Watch The Damn Dancefloor and play what They like to hear.
Strange thing is, I didn’t even play any Tool. At all. I wanted to nearing the end, but my friend had already gone home, taking the albums with him. Kyuss: nope. APC: hardly if at all. Usually those are the exact bands I request at a party and they never play, and I always thought that, if I’d ever organise a party, it’d be full of those.
Nevertheless, it’s very satisfying to see a bunch of people freak out on the music you play, not one bit caring about how it looks to the people at the bar, only there for the beer. Trust me, if there really is nothing better than sex, a good party makes a tie. For one night the world outside ceases to matter, just us and the music do.
So yeah, I’m glad I did it. It’s been a few days of absolute stress (holy sweet and sour shit, STRESS!) and frustration, but the result was very much worth the energy. A friend made me quite a compliment when he noted ‘Wow man, you’ve done your homework!’ In fact there were 3 of us behind the tables, a black metal-type guy, one hardcore/metalcore, and then me, master of pussy new-metal and heavy metal. This was a great thing because it made it possible for us to let the others do theirs for a few songs and get whiplashed on the dancefloor. The black metal albums weren’t played at all, sadly. Heh we simply ran out of time. But anyway.
I was congratulated by several people, which made any stress or effort more than worth it. I’ve been asked if I’m going to do something the like again someday, but I doubt it. Maybe, after another 20 parties with lame DJ’s. But the reason of this party was me wanting to prove to myself I could indeed do better, and I think I succeeded. So I don’t think there will be a second party. But who knows. Or maybe I’ll find some other challenge. I’m starting to like it.
The guy who rented me the place, however! I don’t know what made him think he had found someone competent to place behind the bar, but in my humble opinion he couldn’t have been more wrong. The guy was constantly arrogantly staring at us, and treated his customers like shit. The owner, however friendly at first I must say, wasn’t much different. He made 300 euros, 30 of which were mine. When I said ‘oh, nice.’ he matter-of-factly noted ‘no, not really.’ Apparently this was the worst night he had in months. Although I can hardly believe that because the place is usually empty, regardless of what music is playing.
‘Peanut?’ -‘Yes, I’ll have a peanut. In fact, I’ll just have one and then test my character by not having another one for the rest of the evening.’ And for the rest of the evening, I teased him by offering him peanuts.
Honestly man, I don’t know what makes people "test their willpower" by doing such things. Say no to something just to prove they can. Some believe it actually shows character, but in my opinion it just shows an illusion of it.
The whole point of character is when there’s a big fucking dilemma where you have to choose between what should be done and what you Want done. When you almost fail to see the use of going for "what is right" instead of going for self interest. Then is when you ve to rely on character and trust it, remembering what your vision was when you still had a clear view on the matter.
Character is not trained by refusing peanuts. Eventually you’ll just have an extra smoke instead. There is nothing "right" about refusing peanuts, you just tell yourself that through the evening. And if by the next day you still believe that, it’s a ‘Mission Accomplished’ for you, you example of strong personalities all over the globe, you. Oh Come On. It’s an oversimplified far cry from real life situations.
Character is trained by knowing yourself. But for that, of course, you need to be honest with yourself and a lot of people have extreme difficulties with that. If you know what your visions are and have a solid perception of right and wrong (in a very broad sense on the term), you have a stronger character to fall back on in times of difficulty. Know well what your weaknesses are, and next time you’ll be able to compensate them. Know the difference between what you should do and what you would do. The rest is just… peanuts.
Of course, these are just my thoughts. This is how I see it and I write it down to sum it up for myself, not to accuse anyone of having no character where I do.
No, YOU’RE thinking too much again!!
Well, when I was burning the cd’s, 25 in 3 days, I swore to god and the devil I’d reformat my computer in the most painful, horrible way imaginable, so now it’s time to do just that. I am going to enjoy this beyond the point of what’s still healthy. I’ll be sitting here, grinning wide, slowly clicking "yes" when I get another message "Do you wish to reformat?"… "Are you really sure?"… "This will result in the loss of ALL data on the disk! Are you sure?"… "This will shut down my brain and leave me close to death, submitted to your sick will. Are you REALLY REALLY sure??" And I’ll just click.. yes. Slowly, letting my cursor hover over ‘no’ a minute or so. Ahhh my pants are tight. So, here goes nothing. I can’t possibly continue to work with this piece of shit junk.
Tears, memories weighing like lead, paint, lots of paint, dogs in heat, fired, hired, in love, all alone, all alone in love. Blurry, to say the least. Structure-less. Good moments too, of course, but I still get home and feel like it’s been a shitty day. I guess it’s the nights that make them shitty. I’m sick, and it’s not getting any better. Eating would help. And sleep, probably. Whatever.
The worst part about being sick are the dreams. They’re even more fucked up than I am. Last night I dreamt about a squirrel doing robot dance moves singing ‘All. Your. Base. Are Belong. To Us.’ in a mechanoid voice. And there was a S.W.A.T. team somewhere, too, with people wanting another color gun. I think I was in it. It’s so totally screwed up it wakes you up, but not entirely, so after a while you can’t seperate reality from dream anymore, and that’s where the fun begins. And, you can hardly breathe, with your nose so full of fricken’ snot, it’s fighting for room with your brain. I Hate being sick.
"I think my virginity is growing back." I laughed when my friend joked about it, but it makes disturbingly much sense. I bet if I’d get laid some day I’ll have to restrain myself from saying ‘um, it’s my first time’ cause that’s probably how it’ll feel.
There must be a name for the complex that makes people proud of being a freak in others’ eyes. Fat people that only want to get fatter and lay in bed all day long have it, "gay pride" fags certainly have it, there’s dozens examples. Since shortly I’m one of those, considering my "situation" as celibacy. For I am greater than a mere man, without primal urges like sex and food. And the world is not round, oh no, it is kinda shaped like a burrito.
The party is coming closer every day. I’m beginning to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. But I suppose I can only fuck up so much.
The guy I’m trying to get a place with is bass player in a band, and the singer of that band has opened a copyshop. I helped paint and assemble furniture, and in exchange I got to print my flyers for free. Not with the desired effect, though. Quite a few people let me know they can’t come. I can imagine a party with music that you don’t like or hardly even know isn’t too high of a priority on the agenda. But, we’re optimistic! …
Whenever someone says to me "Only a couple more days before the party!" I’m always amazed for a moment, as if they’re asking me "I got a party coming up do you want to play". I haven’t got the slightest clue what I’m doing. I don’t know if I have enough or even the right music. I suppose I should have picked a later date or experimented more. Coulda Woulda Shoulda. I always have the lame excuse "I’m new at this" if I turn out to suck.
There’s that dax bike against the house across the street again. I honestly don’t know why it fucks me up so much. If he’d see me he’d probably laugh in my face, I know I would. Sometimes I’m just sad, a regular hopeless case. Getting a message or email just makes my day, while he gets to fuck her and love her back. "Oh but he could never have with her what I once had." Heh. I’m so amusing. Like cripled dogs are amusing. Sad little fuck.
I’m sick. Literally this time. Sore throat, coughing, especially in the morning. What I Should do is get some rest or something, but come on. Holding still is the last thing I want to be doing, and I haven’t taken anything but aspirin sice I was 12 or so.
So, instead, I just get up early and go to work. I’m not as energetic as usual, but I manage fine. Actually it’s a great relief to be working again, it’s been quite a while. I missed it, a lot: The feelings of "here we are let’s build this shit" when we arrive in an empty room, the amazement when seeing what crazy stuff comes out of them trucks, the satisfaction of seeing it grow and come to life, and even the "Are We Done Yet??" kind feelings at the end of the load-out.
Thursday was pretty boring: 2 and a half hours work to take down some nerdy Microsoft presentation thing in the middle of the night. As a result I had no bus back home and I had to bother my friend (again) sleeping over.
Now Saturday, however! Rise and shine, off to Brussels to build the set of no one other than Jamiroquai. Jamiro who?? Jamiro Quai, the little funky dude from the Godzilla soundtrack ‘Deeper Underground’ (which, by the way, fucking rocked most of all), Little L, Space Cowboy and so on. Why are you explaining? Because SOME PEOPLE claim they don’t KNOW him because "THEY HAVE A LIFE". Shame on them. Double shame. They’re missing out.
There’s always people coming home from a concert going "..and for a split second, I totally had eye contact!" but the truth is, and they know it but they’re just in denial, that the crowd is just a grey mass for the artist. BUT, if you’re actually standing Right In Front of the stage, where security and press are, and he looks down straight at you, THEN you can say you had eye contact. Heh I’m starting to sound like a squealing wannabe groupie.
Anyway the reason why I was there (that’s usually off limits for sagehands during the show) was, I was "cable bitch" that night. What’s a cable bitch? Well, in front of the stage are 2 camera’s, riding around on tracks. They’re not wireless, so there’s always a cable in the way, sometimes even under the wheels and there’s no need to explain what a bitch that is. So, Someone has to be tonight’s cable bitch and feed the cable, and pull it back so the cameraman doesn’t have to worry about it. Quite a daft job, with the front 3 rows watching your every move (when they’re not screaming at the artist) and the speakers, able to make every whisper of the artists audible right to the other side of the room, right next to your head. Speakers, bigger than you. Stacked. 3 cheers for earplugs.
Tomorrow, "some scaff job". I’m quite worried because the less info you get from your boss, the more of a bitch the job will be. And I got nothing but "scaff" and a location. I’m proper fucked. In a bad way. As in, not good for me. Also not pleasant. In any, even unpleasant, way. Bad kind. German kind. Blond German kind.
Imagine this: you’re trying to set your 20 year old hormone-driven mind off of anything that only frustrates you even more, so you’re quite happy when your boss lets you know there’s a job to do in Ghent: some party, work from 8am till 10pm.
Wrong again. This must be without a single doubt the most weird, bizarre, freaky production I’ve been in so far. I’m talking about a 3 industrial-sized rooms big, erotic fest. How I wish I was joking. I just wanted to get the fuck OUT before we even started. Big round red beds! Dildo exhibition! A "White Room" being only one giant white bed the size of my room, filled with matresses and pillows. And I’m Not Even Remotely Kidding!! Fucking furry swings hanging from the ceiling! Small stages with nothing on them but a Pole! And ironically, the whole party was set up in an abandoned underwear factory. Yes, underwear. Quality underwear, even; Eskimo brand.
I had to take off my shoes and hop on that big white bed to tie a few drapes to the trusses and I must say, the sexual buzz was almost audible. Around 10pm I was hoping I could please leave and go home, but I should have seen it coming: We stayed and worked until 1am.
The only thing appearing to be somehow positive is that I had quite an interesting conversation with a homosexual (that’s the first I know, although I’m not too good at recognising them) about relationships. He assured me that men are equally as frustrating as women can be. There goes another temporary solution. Cool guy, too. He didn’t seem too shy about his "orientation" at all, even cracked jokes about it. Said "well thank you very much" when a colleague noted that tieing up drapes is for fags.
Needless to say, the Load-Out was quite disturbing, to say the least. Thank any god they had already moved out the dildo exhibition before we arrived. Apparently they were afraid of theft. That is both hilarious and so sick it makes my stomach turn. Also, Praise The Greek Gods we didn’t have to clean up that bed. Many of those pillows were ripped to shreds and the matresses didn’t smell too fresh anymore. In fact the whole place reaked. The Load-Out, however, was entirely in a light of heterosexuality, which was quite comforting. A strip dancer that must have forgotten a few things came to ask for a light, and I was glad to see it was a woman. For all I knew it was a gay party, which would have made the dildo exhibition completely revolting. (DISCLAIMER I have nothing against dildo’s but I rather not be confronted with them at work, especially those named "fill bill" that belong to someone; Pete knows who.) Also I worked together with a charming girl that even drove me to the railway station and saved me a 30 minute walk in work shoes.
I think if I had a girlfriend I might be crazy enough to go to that party, myself. Depending on what exactly was expected of you, though. But that’s the whole point: I don’t, I’m the sucker cleaning up the mess. It was all way too confronting for comfort and I must say it hasn’t Exactly set my mind to other things.
And I skinned my finger, damnit. It stings and burns and hurts like Hell.
I am so seriously fucked up right now. It’s odd, I actually felt better for a couple days. Happy, almost. I’m trying to write down my thoughts on paper, another letter that will never reach its destination. Right now, on these moments where I need her the most, is when she must stay the hell away from me. Wait for me to get back on my feet and force a smile. I’ll manage, always have.
I hope, someday soon, I’ll stop feeling like an idiot. Better yet, have no reason to. I need to move the fuck away from this place. I’ll destroy myself and that’s no big deal, but I’ll destroy her right along with me and I’ll never forgive myself for it. Damn her for letting me. And DAMN HIM for not seeing what the FUCK he’s doing. What is he, Retarded??? Too busy getting stoned and pissing and moaning about the difference between his dreamworld and reality? The fuck is making the exact same mistakes as me. In his own sheepy way. At least I didn’t look sheepy as I did the dumbest things imaginable.
So what is a 20 year old screw-up to do. Unlike several folks think, I am still able to love and function effectively. I did love that other girl, I really did, although now she has succeeded marvelously in making any love on my part absolutely obsolete. I should thank her for that instead of starting another argument and degrading her to yet another person I feel awkward around.
So the only solution is keeping busy. A temporary one but a solution nonetheless. I’ve been helping some friends paint and organise a place to start a copy shop. You know, a place with copy machines, printers and so on. The owner wants to make it hip, with internet and a corner to sit and drink, and posters and stencils on the walls. I sure as hell hope I get to help with those..
In exchange I get a fat discount for my flyers. I’ll only have one week left when the shop is finished so I guess the flyers are more like a rhetorical thing. You can find temporary designs in the image section, feedback is more than welcome.
It’s striking how I rather sit and feel horrible than move on. It’s pretty obvious in th situation with my ex but not the only example. I think I’m beginning to understand why though. The chances of me ever finding someone with a freak fetish for introverted antisocials like me are looking pretty grim. So I clinge on to what’s left of what I once had like a blind kid cuddling a dead dog.
Of course, next week I’ll come up with another reason. Whatever suits me at the time works, I suppose.