I don't know why I always try to come up with a neat title for my blog entries before I write a word. When I write in my paper journal I don't title entries. I date them and sometimes scribble the location where it was written but never a title. I only do this because there is a space for a title. Like a monkey to a banana, I see a space for a title and there I go as if it must be done. Then, I try, square peg in a round whole style, for far too long to label what is usually no more than a jumble of common complaints, improper information regarding my mental health, stream of conscience long-winded bullshit, the worst self-help advice, the occasional recipe, and endless listing of dreams faded. I believe it is easy to say that what I put down here needs no title. Maybe, when I attempt fiction. I mean, for real and not this fiction that just so happens to be my reality.
I can not write about anything other than myself here, really. For that I apologize and I wish it could be different but that's what this is. This is, for real, a huge part of my therapy and you, the reader, are of no importance. No one has to read this but I have to leave it open for people to read or it will not help me. If I put this in one of my many private journals it does not do any good and then someone finds it. When people read something that they are not supposed to they tend to overreact. That is one reason this is semi-public, it can not be that serious if I am willing to let just about anyone read my private thoughts. These can not be my most private thoughts, right? Yes, in a way. I am fairly honest here. I reveal way too much according to, well, just about everyone who acknowledges to have read this and actually communicates with me on a regular basis. I am sure there are those who read bits and pieces and think, "oh, Danny's drunk again" or "he's looking for attention and pity, how pathetic" and whatever, I get it, you think you know me. You don't and as much as I would like to say I don't care, I do. Not that much but I do wish those people would give me a chance. That, though, is not going to happen for those people don't give others chances. They make their erroneous assumptions and they move on.
See what I mean? I can not title this; it isn't anything in particular. It is brain diarrhea. I have the mental shits. That's why I wear a hat.
So, what was today?
Well, it's safe to say that it resembled those before it. Today was a series of let downs, a three course of failings, an extra large pizza of broken dreams all for me, a quart of disappointment eaten straight from the carton, and the stomach ache of tonight is upon me as a reminder of my overindulgence of hopelessness. So many things that have slipped through my fingers this year; too many "you almost had it but" situations for only two months. Now, this month is going to test my tolerance for disappointment and horror. I know I will get through it but I wish I wouldn't. I wish this was it. I wish all of this would fucking stop. I am sick of repeating myself. Walking talking dumb ass Sisyphus.
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