Tuesday March 1 2011

DREAM: Christie McCloud, my old youth pastor, and Bill McCloud are standing there—some people are watching the commotion. Bill is in tears and it’s very obvious and distinct. He’s announcing his break up with Christie, his wife. I’m shocked and so is everybody else. It’s a sad scene ☼☼☼☼ I take Margot by the hand to the storage unit but it looks different and isn’t a square shaped room but more of a tetris shaped room. “I need to talk to you about something,” I tell her. We go inside and I pull the garage door down. There’s stuff everywhere. I get on my computer as she goes to use the bathroom. I’m sifting through emails and Facebook messages. I hear a shuffling sound behind me. It’s Margot. “Oh! You’re still here. Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s understood that she’s curious as to what I’m doing on the computer, like she’s being nosy or trying to see if I have any emails with other girls. I never get the chance to say what I want to say to her before…

I wake up at 5:30 p.m.

Breakfast: Blueberry Poptart. Orange Juice. Zinc.

A very productive Musicplayer practice—four brand new songs to show for.

Chris: “Worst. Musicplayer. Practice. Ever.”

Lunch: Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Honey Green Tea.

James drives us to Becca’s place—Art and Roma caravanning behind us. I comment on how cautious James’s driving is and how interesting it is see the difference in people’s driving.

Me: “Because of my line of work delivering and all, I’m hardly ever cautious. I mean I’m smart and use common sense still.”

At Becca’s place.

Poker in the dining room. Coming up with nicknames—Art Baker (Because of his advice earlier to add milk to the brownie mix after we didn’t melt the butter properly)—Roma Tabs (Because you can look at his laptop at anytime and find at least 30 browsing tabs open)—James River (Because of the James River and other inside jokes)—I currently do not have a nickname.

Just as Art sees me jot down something in my notebook he says, “Are you writing super weird expressions?”

Me: “I have to, Art. You might say something interesting.” I joke about there being a book entitled Art Baker Goes to America, to which you can read many super weird expressions by Art.

Sharing Brownies and Milk all around.

I win the game with Art in second place.

The Russians leave and discussions begin in the kitchen about dreams—going through my dream book and looking up insight online.

James shares a dream he remembers where him and his friends were running away from these hairy Cyclops monsters that were transforming everyone into themselves. Eventually, they find a dead tree that keeps them safe.

Ken says he dreams frequently about a commune and starting one.

Becca and I talk about recurring characters in dreams of people in waking life that we’re not normally in contact with.

Rocky: “I’m tired of shagging people.” This of course leads us to reference Weezer’s “Tired of Sex”.

Randomly we start encircling the island counter in the kitchen—round and round, then into the dining room.

I’m recalling recent stories involving Kenneth—giving my insight into his personality and condition. Earlier we were talking about the schizophrenic man in the movie Identity. James informs me that, “Robert! You are Kenneth,” as if I had a multiple personality disorder and Kenneth didn’t exist. I mean, it makes sense. He’s always around the house. This creates a burst of laughter out of all of us. Good times.

On the drive back home—consoling in James. He recounts his own emotional situation with his last girlfriend.

Me: “I wish I had more control over my thoughts. I need a refresh button.”

He hangs around in the house while I eat Scrambled Eggs and Mango—showing me some pre-Weezer songs that helped him along the way. He remembers hearing about a tribe of people somewhere that, whenever somebody gets sad they throw a celebration in response to keep up their spirits. Interesting.

Newspaper route.

Eating Salt n Vinegar Chips and a Banana.

I’ve been fighting really hard to keep you out of my mind and disassociate as much of you as I can. Do you know how hard that is when you gave me so much to remember—when stains from your remains are as permanent as day and night? You did this to me. You wanted me to feel this way about you. And here I am. But it’s too late.

Fuck love. Fuck love. I’m done with romantic love. I am done. Nothing’s ever certain. It’s always a battle to make it something you expect it to be and you just end up disappointing yourself. I’m stuck. I feel sad. I feel broken. I will always continue to love life and love the gifts it has to offer but not this kind of love. It’s pointless. It’s unproductive. I got shit to do and all it’s done to me is put me on a disastrous rollercoaster ride—up and down—up and down—straight off a cliff. And I just keep falling and falling and falling down right into an ocean of a putrid heartache. Why waste time with this kind of adventure? It’s not healthy for someone like me to fall in love because of the way I am, because of how open I am, because of how much I let in, because of how passionate I am. It’s a deep and dreamy attempt to fulfill my own vision of what I think true love is.

Maybe one day someone will change my mind about all of that nonsense. Maybe it will be you again. Maybe it won’t.

Stretching. Putting on my hoody and sweatpants and going for a run around the neighborhood—ipod attached to my ears—Oh, the music. Observing a gang of black ravens cawing up in the boney bare trees while a black cat pauses in fear at the sight of me.

Eating Cinnamon Roll Toast and Blueberries.

Finishing Fargo.

Oh, here’s some 2011 New Years footage: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6eSf5ZkzNmc&hd=1

Sleep 10 a.m.

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