|
|
7-22-01 - 7:05 p.m. Remember that scene in The Simpsons when Sideshow Bob steps on a rake, which comes up and smacks him in the face? And then he turns around, steps on another rake and gets smacked in the face again? And then they zoom out so you can see that he's surrounded by rakes so that no matter where he turns, he's gonna get smacked in the face? My life's kinda like that. And so it makes me wonder why I keep turning around at all. Everywhere I go and everything I do is either completely wrong or just plain stupid. So why bother even trying? I hate when something goes wrong. Because, with me, if one bad thing happens, there are always about three hundred other catastrophes just waiting for their chance to slap me across the face. The worst part is that it's always my fault. I always let things happen, or else I cause them to occur. It's like with the rakes-he could have just stood still, or else used his brain to very nimbly maneuver around them in order to get out. But instead of doing that, he just kept stepping on them and hurting himself. I came home hoping to leave everything behind, in Cambridge. I went to Cambridge hoping to leave everything behind, in San Diego. I've run away twice now, and both times I've found myself back just exactly where I don't want to be: nowhere. The other night I sliced open the palm of my right hand, on purpose. I was mad at myself for being an idiot and letting the world get the better of me. Afterwards I threw a very immature sort of temper tantrum and locked myself in my bedroom. The following day, I came out and drove off to get drunk with a friend of mine. This morning I smoked my first joint in a long time, and I've been drinking steadily since then. George gave me an ultimatum just before I left the house today. He told me that if I put even one foot out of line, he'd throw me out. Did I listen? Of course not. I'm too stupid to have done that. Therefore, when I came home smelling of marijuana and liquor, he told me to pack my things. I don't know where I'll go-probably to Rob's place-but I do know one thing, and that is I need a drink. Isn't this strange? Last week I was a student at Harvard, and now I'm a junkie without a home. I got a 1510 on my SATs but I can't manage to stay sober for a week. I really am becoming my mother. I spent my whole high school career making sure not to turn out like her, and she's precisely the person whose life I've begun to mirror. So why don't I take my own advice and get around the rakes myself? Because I know myself better than that. Every time I've done something good for myself, I've made sure to fuck it up just as soon as I can. And I still have a spatula head stuck in my cast.
|