So, I have hit a tiny wall… fucking writers block.
I relate this to the fact that I have gotten back on my psych meds
and am currently considering not taking them for fear that I may never
be inspired again. Words used to flow out of me like water and now I
find myself looking different random places for inspiration. I’m not
sure how to deal with this and the only reason the words are coming out
me now is because I haven’t taken them today. Coincidence? I’m not
convinced. After all, Elizabeth Wurtzel (Prozac Nation) is an
accomplished writer and is medicated for depression. However, I
recently read a blog in which the writer mentions all the poets and
novelists that were clinically depressed and either killed themselves or
suffered in silence. Am I that person? I am constantly wrestling with
this. My depression has always been so comforting. It’s the one thing
that I can rely on. It’s always there for me when I need it. The one
emotion that I recognize a mile away. Happiness doesn’t come as often
as it probably should given that I have all my limbs and my eyesight and
two jobs that make it affordable for me to drink on the reg and afford
expensive sunglasses. And food… and there’s that shelter thing too.
Maybe I have more to be thankful for than I pay attention to. But then,
that’s never been my personality. To see the good in life.
But then again, maybe I don’t want to be happy. Maybe this wrestling
match in my mind is a good thing. I t causes me to question. When I
was younger, I was raised as an only child and always felt very alone.
However, there were things I found comfort in. Taking pictures, talking
to my stuffed animals hoping that they would come alive and believing
that as soon as I slept they would watch over me and dance around like
Labyrinth. I also enjoyed reading and playing with makeup. Am I
rambling? I’ll stop.
Mmmm… my headphones are playing Billie Holiday. Only further
contributing to the fact that I love depressing music. She’s all I
listen to now.
Also, I had sex with another barely legal with a five pound cock. I
didn’t mean to, but I was hammered and it just happened. Red wine will
do that to me. The only awkward moment to speak of is that we took a
shower together in the morning. Which is something that I never do.
Shower time is private time. It’s the only time of the day where I am
completely alone. I do NOT like to share shower time. But I did with
this boy. He was very sweet as young guys usually are, kissing me,
bathing me, playing with my hair. I’m just glad I shaved my legs. The
last time I had a one night stand I hadn’t taken a sex shower and it is
very fucking humiliating to have hairy legs the first time a guy sees
you naked. I do it to prevent myself from having one night stands, but
it never fails… I get too drunk to care. Anyway, back to the boy. I
think I might see him again. In the biblical sense. I don’t
particularly see any reason why I wouldn’t. He’s very sweet and knows
every word to that dick song by Frankie Avalon… *le swoon*…
Anyway, today is Thanksgiving and the Cowboys lost. But I had
deep-fried turkey for the first time with some great people, so it
wasn’t a total loss of the day. And the night is young… who knows what
it holds in store for this little Jew.
(Hey, maybe I don’t have a block after all…)
