don't blog angry

It's ten to four in the morning.

Motherfucking cat wakes me up with a good clawing session on the part of the boxspring closest to my head again, and I am so overwhelmed with ill feelings that I can't unclench my fists and fall back asleep. Every little thing is a stinging betrayal. The fridge is crammed full of shit and there is nothing to eat. I am exhausted from overwork at the tail end of the longest stretch of time off work I've had in forever. I cannot find my fucking robe anywhere; I have to sit here in these sweatpants that don't breathe so I can type this shit that noone will read, probably because even though I try so hard to use original language I still find ways to use stupid, overworked phrases like "stinging betrayal".

I'm drinking the last few swallows of water from a bottle I bought at the cineplex concession stand the day we went to see Palindromes, and even it is a talisman of my blockheadedness, as in: Why do I have to buy three-dollar bottles of water? Why can't I be smart enough to sneak my own in? Just because I saw a Todd Solondz movie instead of Mr. & Mrs. Smith doesn't make me any less of a boring person. Does it?

I'm trying to apply myself to art, to find space in my life that isn't devoted to driving the loader or dealing with the house or going out and buying things so I can write and play music, but I can't seem to live my life artfully. I see people in cars, like yesterday I saw this red-and-black Mustang GT convertible with a guy in it about my age, or I also saw some car that looked like it was made of nothing but stainless steel and acute angles, no idea what it even was. Like a DeLorean but boxy. I see these cars, or even the Benz Smart cars, and I think, well, these people must be living artful lives to be able to afford such things.

That weird? Not just successful lives. Artful ones. Interesting people get rewarded with exciting automobiles. They're chefs, microbrewers, web designers, hash dealers. I drive an '89 Tempo, therefore I am the most boring motherfucker around. What happened to the world that it's now safe, de rigeur even, to judge people's character on the basis of their ride? Or did it not happen to the world, but just to me?

I am not able to live my life artfully. I can't afford car payments. I do not get unsolicited letters in the mail from my bank promising lines of credit at no interest for one year. My Diesel shoes and my varsity tee shirt do not go together. The few times I tried to make a painting it looked like shit. My books don't say the right things about me. I am not running my own business in artifacts from economically endangered parts of the world. There is no drafting table to the left of this Ikea computer desk.

I don't even have anything, really, to be so goddamned angry about.

It's dawn. The apartment is clogged with dirty clothes, some of them disguising the length of coaxial cable running diagonally across our bedroom, waiting to catch my tired foot on the way back for the last dregs of sleep.