3am

I'm not lonely. I am not sad. I am realizing that those emotions are futile. Whether by the hand of God, fate, or karma, I am fucked...I feel I cannot control my own destiny. If there were a religion that proposed that what happens happens and whatever good you do will make up for that bad, I would be that...Maybe I am ignorant. I don't know. I believe in God. I believe in fate. I believe in karma. I believe in Obama. Nothing matters these days. I feel that no matter what I do, I am destined to be what I am. I feel my choices, however bad or good, will get me to the place I need to be.

But is that the right belief? Is that what my grandparents want for me?

I am tired of being depressed. I am tired of feeling like my decisions don't matter in the long run. I am sick of my job because...Because I feel like I am better than that fucking job. I feel like when I surround myself with fucking ambitionless idiots, I drag myself down. I want to quit. I'd rather be a loser amongst people going somewhere than a winner amongst high school dropouts and teen mothers.

Forgive this rant. It's October. My blog has proven that I have SAD. I blog it out. I've made it this far. I refuse to die now.

I'm in my dark place. There's nothing that has changed recently causing me to go here, but I'm here regardless.

Part 1

There are writers. There are bloggers. Annnnd then, there is me. I once considered myself someone that might be able to compete in the world of blogging...That is until I realized that I don't blog so much as keep an electronic diary of my drunken ramblings and distraught musings. There was also a time I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could create the great American novel using my experiences and struggles. Now I know different.

When life was good, I thought it was horrible. All the arguments and the cheating and the confusion made me a better writer. The things that I put on paper during that whole tumultuous affair were better than anything I can create now. Regardless of how I try, I simply can't come up with that kind of dramatic literature.

Which leads me to my next thought, if I cannot come up with even a short story decent enough to post, what makes me think I can compose 25 pages of prose for my writing sample? I can't, but what other option do I have? Law school is too expensive. If I take out thousands of dollars of student loans for law school, there is still no guarantee that I will have a job. With my grades the way they are currently, I'd be lucky to get into University of Phoenix. (hardyharhar, I jest. Surely that pathetic excuse for higher education would take me...) Grad school, though so pretty and promising on paper, seems to be just out of reach. LSU's MFA program requires an undergrad GPA of 3.2...Sound simple, right? Not so much. Due to all the F's and D's from my first two semesters of college, I have to make a 4.0 each semester to even attain that GPA. I think that asking me to work 43-50 hours a week and maintain an A in each class is simply unreasonable. I am trying. I really am, but it seems so futile.

I'm not even sure why I give a damn anymore.

If there is one thing I am sick and fucking tired of, it's feeling like a fucking outsider. In school, I'm older than everyone except the creepy Grad students. At work, I am older than everyone and pretty much the only one without kids. To top that off, I am their superior. The other managers don't like me so much because I am outspoken and...well, I am not sure, but they don't. My "friends" love me drunk, which is cool, I am not bothered by that. There are at least a few of them that I could call if I needed something. We won't even mention the other aspects of my life...

Anyways. It gets fucking old. It really does. I don't know what else to say. If I am good enough to listen to YOUR bullshit when you're drunk, I should be good enough to talk to when I am sober. But go ahead, mock me, hate me, make fun of me. I'll just bitch about it on my blog and not speak to you further.

*you is a generic term here...sorry.

As I walked through my living room, as I seldom do these days, I noticed a picture on my shelf. It's a snapshot of a thinner me. Also in the picture is a gentleman in a crisp Cingular logo button down. We're both smiling...Not that fake smile that is usually captured with a digital flash, but a genuine, "I'm glad to be here" toothy grin. Odd halos of smoke, frozen forever in time, stand above our heads. His hand is perched on a carafe of golden beer. The glaring neon of a Budweiser sign casts a tinge of blood red across the table.

Cingular has been defunct for nearly four years now (It lost it's own name in the merger of 2005.) And I don't remember his name, (Probably due to the obvious involvement of alcohol...)but I wonder, where is he today?