DATE: 4/24/20XX

LISTENING TO: AFI: Miseria Cantare – The Beginning

WATCHING: Family Guy Season 1 on DVD (I think it’s funny, don’t judge! >:()

READING: Syrup, Max Barry

MOOD: Remorseful <:(

A friend of a friend called me and told me the news. Imir is in the hospital again. He was doing (relatively) well, but he relapsed into the same habits, the same mental spirals that he always fell into. This time, he leapt out of the back seat of his mom’s Jeep, sprinted headlong into the woods. The police searched for him for two days. They found him at the bar, drinking and chatting up any bystander temporarily entranced by his incredible charisma. He fought the cops as they tried to take him. One officer felt it necessary to taze the poor, sick kid. Now he’s arrested and committed. He can’t use his phone, can’t use the internet, can’t contact the outside world unless he wants to talk to anyone on his approved list. 

That list doesn’t include me.

I don’t want to think about it. I’ve already been focusing on ignoring memories of Seth, of Jeremy, and especially of Sophia. This trend has been too much for me. One after another, we flashed out, too ambitious for the world, and found a way to erase ourselves from polite society. Sophia was first, and she took herself out in the worst way. I suppose she was the domino that knocked the rest of over, though I find myself feeling rude for saying so. Every one of us has tumbled after, and Imir is the latest to go. 

Now I’m feeling guilt for including myself in the group of friends who have lost themselves. That’s not fair to them. I’m fine. I’m riding the bus to work. If anything, I’m the opposite of lost. My destination is set and the nice bus driver is obliged to bring me there. I’m not sick, not sad, not out of my mind. So why do I feel left out? My friends are all ill, or crazy, or dead. I’m none of those things. Instead I’m jealous. I’m mad because I’m jealous. I’m sad that I’m mad that I’m jealous.

I’m smoking again. Clove cigarettes make me feel like I’m some poet or painter or musician on the edge of greatness. It’s like if I install a flaw into myself, I’ll discover the amazing talent that will offset that flaw. So far, no luck. Instead I go back to my apartment at the end of the day and spit thick, black gobs into the sink and wallow in my hateful sense of smell. This shit doesn’t feel fulfilling. It feels like an excuse. It feels like if I get addicted, at least I’ll have something to rely on.

Oh woe is me. Woe is the guy who didn’t end up as fucked up as the rest of his friends. I’m pathetic.

I’m only writing here because I can’t sleep.

And if I do sleep, I dream. And we can’t have that.