Anything to get thru: How My Life is like Jim Jarmusch Film

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I feel like I’m in jail. All I want is to do my damn 30 days and get it over with.

Yesterday: 2. Today: zero.

Just fuck it. Almost didn’t have my second J last night; why the fuck bother when I gotta quit anyway? Why ever bother tapering off or pulling back when you gotta fucking quit? Some time that end point is coming. Just fucking do it. Stop fucking around.

There is no reason to wake up, and I’m pissed off at myself for fucking getting up at 6 a.m. even tho my life is fucking meaningless. A minimum of 16 hours of boredom awaits me. Friends? Nope. Job? Nope. Anything to take you outta the house? Well, I gotta buy my lotto ticket. That’s it. Then when I win I can do this from a fucking penthouse fucking apartment.

For a while there I was feeling bad about walking out of my huisarts office the other day. Then I realized if Yoda’s behavior can be sloughed off with a ‘he’s just having a bad day’ comment, MY fucking behavior sure as fuck falls under that category. Not even sure right now if I’ll apologize for it when I return. I might not. After all, I’ve received only one apology to date, and that was from Heike AFTER I explained how numerous cancellations within my first month of therapy made me angry. You’d THINK anyone with half a fucking brain might very well consider that multiple cancellations with a newbie would be frustrating. Right? Seems like someone who can walk and chew gum at the same time SHOULD be able to get down to that conclusion. But no. I had to explain that it wasn’t cool, it made me feel dissed and ignored, and that I was angry about it. Then I got a fucking apology. I don’t know about you, but in my book an apology that’s asked for is only worth half an apology that’s freely given. If the fucker who hurt you doesn’t even realize their fucking behavior is hurtful, then why bother asking for a fucking apology? To make a fucking point? They won’t learn anything. They won’t stop doing it, they won’t stop being assholes. They won’t even feel BAD for hurting you, they’ll just go thru the social motions of being apologetic for about 10 fucking seconds and then they’ll go right back to being motherfuckers.

Yesterday I worked until I felt like I was gonna drop over. Today I’ll do the same, and tomorrow. Ain’t nothing else to do. Bored, bored, bored. My fucking life is a bore. I don’t even WANT to try and create right now. If I fail at it, I’ll fall into a depression so deep I won’t even bother to try coming out again. I can’t take another brick wall in my life. Not right now.

Coffee and cigarettes. My life has become a Jim Jarmusch film. Black and white and only funny if you appreciate irony, sarcasm, and your sense of humor runs to the macabre. And it’ll never be a commercial success.

I’ve made up my mind about one thing. When I’m three weeks into my 30 day run, I’m returning to my huisarts to demand a blood test to confirm that I am not not lying, that I have quit, that it’s all out of my system, that I’m not a psychopath bullshitting my way thru it all. That way, anytime I’m confronted by that closed arm physicality that screams I’M NOT LISTENING TO YOU ANYMORE, YOU DRUG ADDICT, I can shove the results in their faces and say I’m clean, motherfucker, this is the real me. You wanted it? You got it. I SAID it wasn’t going to fucking be pretty. I SAID you’d fucking regret it. Now fucking deal, asshole.

No idea when I’ll actually call Heike. I’m still too angry to keep my mouth shut, so I’ve got to wait. That’s okay. She’s made me wait enough; now it’s her turn. And if she gets impatient and calls me before I’m ready, she’ll hear whatever the fuck comes out of my mouth.

Keep telling myself that after the 30 days, after the blood test, I can smoke once in a while. Never before seeing a doctor again, that’s for fucking sure. And I’ll never admit to smoking to a doctor again. As far as they’re concerned, I’ve quit. Fucking completely. If pressed, I may admit to smoking a joint once a fucking month. Other than that, fuck off. I’m not letting you in any further, I’m not trusting you any more, I’m not being any more honest than what I feel safe with. That’s what you get for fucking with me.

Can’t imagine feeling anything other than that life sucks ass. Hello! There’s nothing here that’s worth anything. Ever. If the soul is immutable, then killing everything won’t make any difference, will it? Everything will survive in one form or another. Maybe it will all come back as a kinder, gentler place if we blow it all up. Will I ever see the world as anything other than hell? I doubt it. I realized this was hell way back forty years ago, at the tender age of 10. Nothing’s improved since then. Rip it all down.

I’m gonna murder another day with nothing. Abso-fucking-lutely nothing. Cleaning the house, playing games, watching tv. Taking at least a short walk. Nothing. Those tasks get me nowhere, they improve nothing (I’ll argue even cleaning the house is a useless task, since it continually needs to be cleaned over and over again). They just fill my fucking time until I die.

What a goddamn waste.

For as much as I hate cigarettes, it’s amazing how quickly they keep disappearing on me. Roll one, start to smoke, turn around, and it’s gone. Granted, my hand rolled cigarettes are about 1/10 the size of a J. Still. They’re going fast, and I’m gagging on the taste less and less.

Anything to get me thru.

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