I think we tend to become those things about which we complain the most.
If that is true than I am a badly written piece of software.
I am a 500 Internal Server Error.
My future and past are both 404 File Not Found.
My life is a 206 Partial File Download.
I am a RuntimeException and Error.
I am a General Failure.

Not feeling well these days. Cannot sleep for shit. It’s not anxiety like it was earlier, it’s just general mind-racing, as was common for me for most of my clean-living life. BP is down. Therapist suggested last time that I am unusual in that I can pretty much tell if my BP is high.She says pmost people have no idea.

Now I remember why I took to drink. It slows things down to an almost manageable pace. There are things I do while buzzed or even completely loaded that I cannot focus on sober. Scanning is one. Waahing dishes. Other things fail, as well they should: writing, composing, delivering speeches to the United Nations General Assembly.

Remembering grade school. Second grade in particular. The one year I spent at a public school, with its expansive classroom spaces comprising 4 or 5 separate classes. nothing but children as far as the eye could see. Nobody was paying attention to any teacher. It was like a giant block party for 2nd and 3rd graders. I may have learned something there, for as much solid material as one learns in the second grade. Mrs. Bonneville. Can’t believe I remembered that. She was inordinately tall, and not just because i was small. Mother said Mrs. B. was over 6 feet tall. Toothpick thin. Mrs. Boneville. hah.

But back to the endless classroom. My mind drowned in it. Mother knew. She commented on it for years afterward, how busy and how easily distracted was my mind.

Jump ahead one year. Private school. Classrooms had 25 kids at the most. I felt like a wild one in the midst of them. A small class but oppressivly disciplined. Third grade asses packed into metal chairs, faces forward, every head paying attention to whateverthefuck lessons are delivered to third graders like they were receiving orders from a commanding General. I fidgeted and twitched, believing (as I had been told) that the classes I took at the American School in Laos put me a year or more ahead of the others. I would say that I have no idea where I got the idea that I should have been ahead of the rest but its maternal provenence should be pretty obvious. I took a bunch of advanced tests and either failed them all or performed with admiral averageness. Mrs. Storch was particularly severe in her rebuke of my claims that I didn’t need to take certain classes or do certain coursework. She laughed in my fucking face.

But Mrs. Storch was the fourth grade teacher. She didn’t matter to me. Third grade’s homeroom teacher was Mrs. Gregoria. All the boys loved her. I was no exception but when I think about my encounters with her today I see a bit of a scheming, nay manipulative asshole in me. Not in her, mind you. All in me. I cheated hugs and sympathy from her, claiming I was homesick — which I was, but not as much as I made it seem. Once I saw that I had her supporting and showing support for me I wouldn’t let it go, the homesickness, no matter how much sense her words made that I should get over and look forward to going home instead of complaining about not being there. The more sense she made, and the more I knew and understood that she was making sense, the more I looked out the window, homeward. What a fucking asshole was I.

Fuck… at the ghetto coffee shop, where someone has decided to start playing his Muslim chant music loud enough for all to hear. I am defragging and updating my POS netbook and might use that going forward over this tablet/keyboard conflagration.

…

OK, music stopped.

New rule for this week is that I do not touch the computer or even turn it on before throwing something out. Shelf after shelf of books untouched for years need purging. Drawers filled with articles of clothing untouched for a very long time. Boxes full of whothefuckknowswhat. Papers and ambiguous metal containers. Today I threw out a couple of bowls and two ice cube trays which became skunky after being encased in a mass of ice for many months. I defrosted the refrigerator last week. It contains a small freezer on top. It is a collegiate-sized dorm room type refrigerator. That small freezer had disappeared under a mass of ice that occupied as much as 20% of the entire refrigerator. Only after I started defrosting it did I remember that a couple of plastic ice cube trays had been hibernating in there. They smell like butt after their polar incarceration. Away with them.

threw out a bunch of other random shit, too. Stacks of expired coupons, expired foodstuffs, priceless Rolex watches, hundreds of dollars in cash money…