Just because I can’t have you, doesn’t mean I can’t dream about you.
Because I do.
I miss how we used to be; you would calm me down so well. You could make any situation better, and you were so fun to have around while drinking.
I’ve replaced you with a number of things. Are they better than you? Who knows, only time can tell. But they are, healthier than we were.
I let things get too far, and now this is the end. Or is it? Can I resist you much longer? One more day makes a week.
Again, only time can tell.
Hahaha I thought that was way funnier to post than another grumpy one. I had to stop before it became this long love poem about cigarettes though, cuz that’s creepy. Just like talking to yourself on an online blog… :/.
Past the third day. From what I’ve heard that means all the nicotine is out of my system. Hypothetically it’s all psychological now. Hypothetically.
After taking my car into the shop, I couldn’t get myself out of bed. A lot of pep talking and shame for feeling like a lazy ass, I made some food and went to go work out. Frustrating.
I am A LOT slower than I used to be.
My friend invited me to the movies with his friend, and it was pretty awesome. They’re awesome company and the movie was great. We got to chill for awhile after, which was nice.
But a familiar feeling came back that seems to be resurfacing more and more. That feeling where I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Being painfully neutral on every opinion, and having no real perspective on anything. Just able to laugh when I think I’m supposed to laugh. Embarrassing.
You know in the movies where the main character struggles with something throughout the film, tries to change to make it better but keeps fucking up? By the end of the film he has learned his ways and is finally ready to change. Then that’s the end. THAT’S IT.
No one talks about the missing identity that comes with a great deal of change. No one talks about how to cope with picking apart your life and starting all over.
I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror, so I’m doing just that. Hopefully I figure it all out soon.
Definitely getting better from being sick much faster than usual.
Now I just feel antsy though. Like I need to do something with my hands to keep me busy.
returned to one of my jobs from being on leave
cooked some bomb fried rice
started a new Netflix show
cuddled with my cat…
And kinda broke into the construction zone next door to take some photos.
That would’ve been hard to explain to authorities…
Cop: “What are you doing here sir?” Me: “Oh, uh I’m just taking some photos… Just for fun.” Pig: “Don’t you have anything better to do than trespassing and taking pictures of dirt?” Still me: “No not really… You see I quit smoking.”
Yeah that would’ve went over REAL well.
Well at least I’ve replaced it with something. A little less legal, but a little more healthy I like to think.
It has been awhile since I’ve done photography, but I’m excited for this series :).
There is a circle of musicians that gather in Washington Square Park on warm, sunny days. Their talents vary widely. Some of them play guitar quite well. Some not so well. Others struggle just to keep beat with the tambourine. But everyone has a great time– especially when the sun is shining. I normally drop in for a song or two. I become part of the group, dance with the music, and make encouraging eye contact with the other members. Even without an instrument, I feel that I outrank some of the weaker tambourine players.
“Young people have an enormous potential to make an impact, as well as a responsibility to figure out new media formats. If print media disappears, and no suitable alternative is created to replace it, you are left with an information void that is damaging for society, for democracy and for citizenship," says Ritchin. "Citizen journalism is not just about producing the content, but also about supporting journalism and helping each other to create and curate it.”—Meta-narrative: Fred Ritchin on the future of photojournalism (via photographsonthebrain)
Change the things you hate or change the way you feel Complaining is fucking worthless, but I totally understand the appeal Every small trace of sexism in me is the direct result of insecurity I’m trying to be better, trying to understand the plight of others and the scars on their hands
But I know I’ll never be good enough for you Yes, I know I’ll never be good enough for you And I know, to you, I am weak But I know that I am not weak So I’ll try to prove myself, I am not a wimp I am not a wimp
So I’ll scream to a room full of strangers all my deepest darkest secrets And I assure you, my lyrics aren’t a joke, yes I really do believe this That by the end of the show, by the end of the show, by the end of the show, by the end of the show You’ll know more about me than my friends and family And that’s all my fault