True hope lies beyond the coast

Upon coming back from my trip, I had to thoroughly revise my CouchSurfing profile. It hadn’t occurred to me that others would mind a crowded house slightly more than I do, and offer their couch only when they have enough room to do so. I included a few lines about this place, its size, and its state of cleanliness. Obviously I would clean it up properly if someone were to come by, but with all the random shit I have and the lack of shelves… There’s only so much I can do before dabbling with physics. You don’t want to fuck with physics, you geek.

Skulls fake and real, safety pins from work, hats, traffic signs, books, DVD’s and cd’s, a shitload of clothes, 2 guitars and a fuck you amount of safety gear and dishes I don’t use. I love my stuff but it’s extremely hard to organize.

While I was at it, I redid my personal description as well, it was outdated and done in a hurry anyway. Actually, I did this while still on the road, and inevitably having to consider myself, I concluded how my life has been rolling by on a constant series of contradictions. Starting from when I was 10, I have been redefined chronologically from spoilt little snot, to orphan, squatter, intern, dropout, soldier, to what I am today, which I suppose would be a roadie, fitting its stereotype like a glove. Some of these core changed happened from one day to the next, and I never had all that much trouble adapting. Except for now, at 24, where I got my ass stuck. As opposed to what I used to think, you don’t “find” routine as you’re getting older. Routine finds you. I do everything to escape it but here I am. It’s annoying. I want to fuck off and not return. Hold up a sign that says “anywhere”.

I lost my train of thought.
Contradiction. Why exactly is it that, after coming back from 2 months of accommodation with others and transportation with others, I come home and fall back into this sociophobic little box? It’s beautiful outside, but I sit here with little other places to go. I have a cell phone but I’m not calling my friends.
I think I need to pick up smoking and drinking so I have something to do at a bar. Have a reason to go out and spend my money among others, and find a connection in a craving for alcohol. I have plenty of other interests involving others but… I am the equivalent of a 12 year old girl on those subjects, I believe. You don’t see those set out on their own, either.

However this summer is looking rather optimistic. I am hoping it will resemble last year as closely as possible, mostly since I missed most of it because oh, my girlfriend of 7 years was fucking around behind my back.
I really have no problem dealing with people. I love people. I have trouble seeking them out.

Hey wow this is new to me, I just realized this. The whole issue has nothing to do with human contact, it’s about establishing it. This very moment is my problem, where I am alone and for some reason, fail to make an effort not to be. I could go out and “mingle” but then what? I’ll still be alone, and still I won’t reach out to anyone. They have to come to me.
Why? Why why why? What’s keeping me from making that single step, what’s the barrier? I used to assume I simply did not develop the urge in puberty because I had all the friends/girlfriend I needed. Today… I’m less certain.
Why? My mother? Freud would piss himself with excitement, no doubt, but I refuse to believe every single one of my quirks lead back to one event like they are so eager to believe.
WHAT, then?? I’m drawing blank, I’ve never had this before. I know myself inside and out. I analyze my analysations of myself. I am meta-intelligent. A closed book under X-ray, memorized.
I know the problem, I know the solution. AND SOMETHING is in between. Seemingly impenetrable.

Fuckit. So yeah, summer is looking up. There is an event called “Dansen in ‘t Park” [Dancing in the park] I volunteer for, working among and with crowds of new faces. 4 days of dancing, from tap dance to salsa and yes, capoeira. It’s a mix that allows me to be all I can be, both contributing where I can (I’ve been called indispensible) and practicing my hobby. Next up on the list are the “Gentse Feesten” and more voluntary work- Aren’t I noble.
Taxi bike. Every year a group of volunteers set out on four-wheel bikes with two seats in the back, to get drunks, old ladies, pregnant women, old pregnant women, drunk old ladies, drunk pregnant women and drunk old pregnant ladies to and from the party zone. Giving taxis the finger, rioting with the cops, drag over 200 kilo’s in total over the Van Eyckbrug and then proceed to put up a broad grin to the next potential customer with a skirt. Good times, good times. Fortunes are spent on liquids and deodorant but the experience is unique.

Also, I just went out with a friend to just… hang around in town and break the laws we encounter (I get hard on that) and there’s a Brazilian party tonight I don’t feel like going to because none of my friends will be there and I don’t like Brazil all that much BUT I will go to anyway. Just in case I make some instand friends(™ ~Just Add Water~) before walking away. Is salsa Brazilian? I know the basic steps. I doubt I’ll get a chance to whoop out my capoeira skills which will likely impress no one to begin with. The shit a born Brazilian can do around my age is more than you thought possible. “Pretty fly” is the best I can do. Trust me to over-analyze hypothetical events. It’s a curse.


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