I Don't Even Know.

I was in the greatest of moods before I'd turned off for the night to fix my keyboard and then write all this. It's one of those weird deals where I'm certain I'll probably feel better in the morning, but I'm just feeling weird. Weird in a bad way. Unhappy weird.

I've been roped in and out of peoples' troubled intimate lives and at the same time, I'm looking at mine with a little bit of shame because it sometimes seems everyone is looking to me for a some sort of hope when, at the end of my day, I'm hoping to ride to Canada on the back of my education and call it good. I've got every Jack and Terry as well as their brothers telling me to stay at home or to stay National and all sorts of other stuff.

More troubling still is Andrew. I dished Andrew a verbal headbutt for self-sabotaging his own plans and using Existentialist Theory to resign himself to his unhappiness. I told him he just needs to find a plan that works for him, and have a realistic goal to follow, and to aspire to be self-made. I guess, at the end of it all, I was just saying "Why can't you be me?".

I read like, half of Atlas Shrugged before realizing I had shit to read for College Credit and games I could be playing, which kind of undermines the idea that I'm trying to live in parallel to one of the characters. I want to be Hank Rearden, or maybe Midas Mulligan. Midas Mulligan seems to have a sappier grasp of things, having bought a bouquet of flowers on his way to Galt's Gulch. I aspire to do what I want through my own efforts and be well-established because of the things I've done, the time that I've lost and the sweat I've poured into things. I wish to be indebted to no one and to be able to say I own, with my own hands, what I live. I like to do things so I can tell people that I've done them. If they don't notice, I'll make them notice.

I think I may have hurt Tom.
They have this saying, that a Dog is only hit so many times until it recognizes who's hitting it and bites them. I've fed Tom the same bullshit, "Oh, hey! Sorry, I was kind of preoccupied! Goodnight." some sixteen times in a row or something. He didn't say a word back, this time. I think he's just realized who's hitting him, maybe, and giving me the same treatment in return. It doesn't feel good, and it didn't trouble me until I started pulling the keys out my keyboard to try and fix it. Just clinking away with my screwdriver, and I thought, "You've messed up, haven't you?"

I'm getting too preoccupied with a handful of people. I've lapsed out of my "Everything is a Whole" mentality, and things are becoming mosaic again, and I need to take a few steps back so I can see what the picture's all about.

I don't know what the hell the drawing is, this time.
It's not me.
It was supposed to be someone dropping a tea-tray.
Then it became a man with a tree growing from between his legs.
Then it became a man lifting a house.
It's kind of a mess, that's all it is.
A big mess.