"Isn’t desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn’t the object always absent?"

keep meaning to write more lighthearted things like the time i wore a pair of tight farrrrr-upper ankle revealing trousers to work and hadn't shaved my legs in months and usually i don't give a shit about that but this day it threw me into a state of anxious nausea (lack of sleep, or abundance of caffeine) and i ended up spending £5 on some hair removal wax strips and plastering them to my legs in a public toilet and instead of removing the hair cleanly they left a gummy hunk of wax on my shins that coated the hair but! but! i could pull the ankles of the trousers down and attach them to the wax that remained on my legs and somehow this method kept my hairy legs from being revealed all day, and when i told my friend about this in a bar afterwards we laughed until i felt sick but now it just makes me feel unbearably sad, the tiny pathetic shit we think will heal us, bc i am a melancholy wreck forever and always

there is a line in a richard brautigan poem, "I have so little left that you would want"
which i feel as though describes my entire life, and my relationships with other people
life has sucked me dry and turned me into this boring, empty thing, god damn

"i'm working as a librarian at the moment and if you have any unfulfilled fantasies regarding the position then so do i"
i should not be able to socialise when drunk, my god

"I hope you go to bed tonight at some point and appreciate what you have, yearn for little and wake up with the willingness to start over."

reading a lot of books, listening to a lot of bright eyes. missing my mother. feeling like i did when i was fourteen and wouldn't sleep for days. a dead body was just shown on the television. my body feels weird and heavy, i've never been so aware of the fact that i'm a decaying sack of blood, organs, and bones. working at the library is good. i feel a strange kind of contentment when i think about how my life is going nowhere. keep pushing writing deadlines back. keep drinking too much gin on the weekends. i feel like i'm a child again. i wish i was.

i'm back in my childhood home, in the childhood bedroom i shared with my sister until i moved out aged 18. she's living in another city now so i pushed our beds together - affording myself a luxury i never had as a child, a double bed. i just finished reading the goldfinch by donna tartt and it moved me like all of her writing does. there's always the same theme - innocence and innocence lost. she is forever stuck in the past, in the broken parts of childhood, in the moments that will define who we become when we grow up, if we ever do. it reminds me of a section in jonathan lethem's fortress of solitude, where the narrator tells his girlfriend that the reason he glorifies his past so much and views it with such wonder is because his childhood was the only part of his life that wasn't directly affected by his childhood...it sounds strange, typing it out, but that's something that's never really left me.