Why Am I Doing What I Do…

Number 1

I feel alive when I entertain.

I feel alive when I give.

I feel alive when someone opens up to me.

Does this make sense?

God it’s so early in the morning, I can barely keep my eyes open.

Let me see if I can make sense of these thoughts…

If I can be there for someone physically, help them with what I know, make them laugh, smile, feel enlightened, and / or more importantly, make them learn something significant… I feel as if I’m doing what I’m supposed to do… I feel as if I’m done my job…

Job?

Yes, I say “it’s my job” because I believe I have no other choice. This may sound absurd, egotistical, even narcissistic, but I have these stories in my head and experiences that I want to share.

Stories of domestic violence to heartbreak to heists, and other human experiences that can all be told in thoughtful pieces… and I want to tell them in a way that entertains people who hear them.

I’m not going to lie, I often feel alone…

and entertaining and listening to others, is the only way I can fill that void.

Number 2…


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Seppuku

I’m at it again – the whole “I can’t sleep because I’m going through some mental shit right now” and since I haven’t written anything in awhile… this jibber jabber of text can hopefully help with the instability.

You could ask, who are you writing for? And, I’m going to be straight up and tell you that I’m writing for myself.

Writing is how I cope with my mental fragility. Therefore, I don’t care about the grammatical errors that happen in this post, I don’t care if my words are illogical… all I care about is the fact that I’m writing.

I’d rather write than shove a gun down my throat.

There are so many things that are racing through my head right now. I want to tackle how my manic-depression and PTSD keeps me awake at night: I’m tired of waking up screaming as another night-terror after night-terror after fucking. night. terror. blasts through my hippocampus as it rips through my emotional memories of nostalgic pain.

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Stop Caring About The People Who Don’t Care About You

A few weeks ago I relapsed and I gambled.

For those who don’t know I have a gambling problem and I made the grave mistake of going to a casino, withdrawing three hundred dollars from the ATM, and blowing it all away on poker.

Old habits die hard.

I have this belief that though bad things happen to me all time. I’m talking my car getting stolen, getting fired, having the IRS freeze all my assets,  and the list continues…

However, the consequences that take place when I gamble, are consequences that end up being destructive to myself and others. I’m talking the things that happen after I gamble are. just. fucking horrible.

I have no idea why I write in the wee hours of the night or morning.

How do I explain this? How do I put it?

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The Most Romantic Breakup Story Ever

I was recently asked if I had a breakup story to share.
This is the story –

When I would close my eyes and think of her, I would see her smile. It forms ever so slowly to where her eyes squint softly, her cheeks begin to glow, and then the tiniest of dimples appear as if to remind you that there is indeed pure beauty in this world.

Angelic elegance.

Her smile more than plants your feet on the ground because it’s made up of empathy, compassion, and the type of selfless love that tells you that you are home.

If you don’t smile when she smiles, you have no heart. Her smile could make your heart ache with comfort.

In this moment she wasn’t smiling.

Her eyes looking down. I was in front of her as she was in front of me. The lady’s back leaning against the wall of her bed, while I sat idle on a stool in the middle of her room.

The only noise that could be heard was a sniffle from her nose, the pensive scratching from my nails, and the lamp’s bulbs radiating energy from being on for too long.

We were just trying to make sense of the last two hours.

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The Time I Stole

I was recently asked to tell a time when I stole something.
This is the story –

In my freshman year at UC Berkeley, I lived in a dormitory called Bowles Hall. It looked and felt like the gloomy structure of an exact replica of Hogwarts.

The only difference was the ability to find an amazing woman like Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson, or an Angelina Johnson to be walking the halls… because women didn’t exist at Bowles Hall!

Yes.
No women.
No magic.

It was an all-male dormitory with men growing into their prepubescent bodies and their strides of deodorant sticks. It was less of a Harry Potter story and more of a Lord of The Flies type situation.

And on this particular day, like any other day, I found myself vehemently arguing with my roommate, Greg.

Listen, Greg is a great roommate. The only issue is he was (is) a very vocal right-wing conservative. And, to his credit, I can be a boisterous liberal lefty.

I loved President Obama.
He thinks President Obama is one of the worst presidents in American history.

We argue from pro-choice issues all the way to the fundamentals of whether or not systematic racism exists. Our debates get loud – and at the young age of 18… they often got violent.

That day wouldn’t be any different.

Me: FUCK YOU
Greg: FUCK YOUUUUUUUU!

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