I may be changing this blog's format soon. I want to separate my personal emoting crap from my discussion of music or movies or books . . . which, admittedly, I haven't done much of. But I'd REALLY like to be a music reviewer. Which is utter bullshit because I am NOT a musician, I simply own freaking tons of music and listen to it all the time. Honestly, I have NO business assessing the quality of anything (music in this case) when I am a failure, fraud and joke in regards to any of those subjects I might try to speak athoritatively on . . . shit, a dangling modifier.

I am having spaz attacks on a daily basis. Whether self-abusive breakdowns or muscle-wrenching anxiety attacks, this is some unhealthy shit. I also swear too much.

I see no point in going to bed, nor do I see any point in getting out of bed.

How can this be who I am?

If God put anything good in me, to coincide with all of this mental garbage, when I was forming in the womb, then where the hell is it? I see no evidence. I have no positive identity.

My wife deserves better. I have forgotten the face of my father . . . and my mother's father. ...But I'm going to try and go fishing tomorrow, so maybe I can remember it. So maybe the someday funeral in my mind's eye won't be so empty, and maybe my heart won't feel so heavy. Because it weighs a lot right now, and I can barely move. ...and I am a shitty poet.

This is my mental illness.

This is me. (or at least the only me I can see)

Is it something YOU would want to be friends with?