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Better Luck in Your Skills - A Future To Retrospect [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
It took years to make this naturalistic

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Better Luck in Your Skills [May. 3rd, 2007|12:14 pm]
It took years to make this naturalistic
[mood |tiredtired]

So my source of anxiety stems from a sick brain, that links to my caged fucking trap of a head. People aren't annoying, they may be stupid, or mouthy, impatient or quarrelsome, but they are just people. Working at Blockbuster doesn't make me feel empowered to chastize anyone, though, unfortunately, I have. Work stresses me out, and I feel partially withdrawn, partially outgoing and mostly unappreciated (which is the ultimate foundation of work for everyone, Rob you are not special). I have a very basic supply of cashflow, that niether meets, nor suffices, any type of bill flexes I will have soon. I also know since being released (terminated, canned, etc etc?) from my realty job, my career field is economically hazy. I know I didn't like the path, but it was a staple of monetary bliss nonetheless. As for my writing job, credentials rock, but how many poor journalist does it take to impress money bags into submission? I mean really, no one cares about it. I would go back to school, but that would require A)time and B)money (both of which are too busy fucking me to actually have a relationship with them). Also, I am not scholastically sound, and probably not as booksmart or otherwise to compete with the next bloke. So what do I do? Do, do, do. I have a rather diverse method of securing positions, but with what? For what? My communication level is superb, my dialect is decent and I can do circles like a red pen around a want-add against anyone else. My problem is, I'm not thinking, not that I can't, I just haven't. Procrastionation is the seething impulse of life. Truly, I would like to in theory start up a magazine, a newspaper, a coffee shop (with tasteless, tart flavors I'm sure), or an endless amount of things that would either tailspin into the endless waves of a desert, or take off with a nervous, detached flight.

I am a creator; self inflicted, self indulgent, wholly complicated. I am complicated in the way in which I operate, in how obstinate I am. What fucking fork in the road do I take to eat the rest of my life?

I think this is the point in my life where I point to the point of a cliff. I am not happy, but it's fun looking off, if just to examine the view. I also realize, from this aforementioned vantage point, that_______________________________________________________________________________