Diary excerpt thread

I came across an old photo earlier and it almost made me cry. It reminded me of a time when I was much happier; a time when I had a semblance of independence by way of a job and a rented room in a chill af house.

That was over a year ago. Since then I moved and lost my job, then moved again and couldn't find anything but temp work. I also had a relationship fall apart. Had to move back to my dad's last month and I'm feeling pretty bummed out being here.

On the plus side, realising it all has made me feel much less depressed. I've been actively decreasing a nagging superego and being more empathetic towards others. I'm also fully focused on finding a job which is a start to re-finding everything I've lost.

THIS IS THE YEAR MY NIGGAS.

2017.

LET'S TURN THIS SHIP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. NOBODY CAN STOP US IF WE BELIEVE IN OURSELVES.

LET'S

FUCKING

DO

THIS

WE CAN BE SO MUCH MORE THAN WHAT WE ARE RIGHT NOW.

I BELIEVE IN YOU.

>pure ideology

I'm with you bro. Spook or no spook.

My diary is pretty dull. All the entries are long and have varying degrees of coherence. Here's an excerpt from a recent entry:

>John was accepted into Harvard, MIT, Cambridge and more great schools. I think he's going to accept Harvard's offer. Emily was accepted into a few schools of not quite the same caliber but still prestigious schools like Imperial College and a few others whose names I don't remember.
>...
>As much as I'm genuinely glad for John and Emily I can't help but be bitter towards them but still even more so towards myself.
>I've long since squandered any chance of getting into a nice graduate school and it's even unclear if [current mediocre school] would accept me. And this is what's fueling my crippling feeling of inadequacy.

>/r9k/ becomes the new /b/
>Veeky Forums becomes the new /r9k/

And the cycle of entropy continuous

>Are you happy?
No

I have some pretty cringeworthy stuff from when I was about 17/18. Here's an the beginning of my first journal:

I am [insert name] and I don't know what to call this leather bound collection of pages, so I won't call it anything as something does not need a name to serve a function, except maybe a word—even then its function is served by its identity or name, thus creating a relative feedback system which I'm sure I will discuss further at a later period. What this book will do is up to me, as it will be I who will entirely do it. Specifically I aim to clear my thoughts onto this paper while simultaneously supporting and advancing said processes in hopes to make myself more eloquent, organized, driven, creative, disciplined, and controlling of my own reality—which is restricted by the domain of my consciousness as propagated by my brain matter. (Though I know it, I should remind myself mistakes here are to be expected such as in life. In their acknowledgement comes growth.) In addition to a reflection of my original thoughts, this text will serve as a compilation of secondarily sourced information including quotes, definitions, equations and algorithms, alike. By the last page, I unfaithfully hope that my control over myself will have improved an equal amount compared to my further understanding of the universe, in a fundamental and detailed sense. This is much like a prologue to a work bound by the limitations I will have and already set for myself. Considering my future view on these current musings, I might add for context that I am currently alone in my hotel room in Marrakech, Morocco at 4:26 Am.

[god I was such a pseudo-intellectual twat, but at least well-intended]

Here's one of my favourite days in my diary. I don't write much because my life is generally dull, so when I do write I take pleasure in doing so.

>January 11th:

>"So proud of myself to be honest. I remember years ago (I was probably eight or nine years old) being asked which university I wanted to go to. A strange question for someone that young, but it was my brother who asked the question and he liked to act like he was older than he was. Oxford was the first university I mentioned, followed by Cambridge. Because they were the only ones I knew. My brother laughed: "hah, you have to be related to the queen to go there". My dad came into the room and my brother told him what I'd said. He smirked and said "you have to be really clever to go there" with a look in his face which was, by the way, more encouraging than demeaning. And here I am, with an offer from Oxford University. Though dad is no longer around to be proud, my brother's jealousy alone is enough to boost my spirits."

how many definitions, equations and algorithms did you end up including?

I tried to keep a diary for a while, but every single day was exactly like the day before it so I've got like four entries and one is just: "The cat is missing. I hope he comes home." And another is: "My grandfather died last night. He was 93. He slipped on black ice and hit his head." And: "There was a snowstorm during my grandfather's funeral and the rental car didn't come with chains on the wheels so we had to pull over and walk the last mile in the snow to get to the interment. Just as the priest was saying the last rights, there was lightning and thunder, and then I tripped over someone's headstone trying to get to the graveside to throw in a flower." And then like four years with nothing follow by: "I'm being committed tomorrow."

I wrote some shit in the psych ward but none of it was dated and I tossed it out when I got home because that whole experience was a Bad Time and I didn't care to relive it by reading what I'd written.

Oh, there's also several pages just filled up with black or red crosses. No words, just crosses going for pages.

:(
I wish I could mind meld with you and give you hope.

Another excerpt:

The last 48 hours have been absolutely absurd: Friday I buy drugs (pot) in the rain and drive back in a cab, call a number that was scrawled on the window fog and commence to talk to a Texan dude who went to UT. After, I punch a hole through the bathroom wall and go to a club concert at [club name] with D, J, B, Z, and N. What ensued henceforth I can only call ridiculous. I, as B put it, was simply trying to move forward—to where, I have no clue. I danced outrageously, cut the coat check line by paying the coat checker $20 after yelling and arguing with the whole line, then I almost got into a fight with some guy (who was much bigger than me) trying to cut the bathroom line, telling him he "can suck my dick!", I lick D's face, and then I eventually get kicked out for inappropriate drunkenness (naturally) leading me to wander the streets aimlessly and mysteriously acquire a serious bump on my forehead, bruised ear, and very bloody arm, all to end in flagging down a police care and having some supremely chill cops taking me (a drunk minor) home. In conjunction with my uproarious behavior, J didn't know how he got home, B got into an argument with the club's owner till he called the police on them for not returning his coat and finally told them "nevermind" when they actually showed, and D and Z came come, ordered hookers, got robbed by said hookers and their knife wielding pimp, then order more hookers, even though D had just got a handjob.

I mean, a decent amount, but then I realized that it was way more convenient to just bookmark a page on Chrome or copy and paste it into my notes than taking out my journal to transcribe it there by hand. I really just ended up primarily using it for recording personal events and ideas, silly aphorisms and doodles, that kind of thing.

It's fine. I've got my exit all planned out. I know what to mix with what for effective CNS depression leading to cessation of breathing, I know how to grind them and add them to a small drink and have a mortar and pestle for the job, and I have chemotherapy-strength antiemetics to make sure they stay down.

Although I have everything immediately on hand, things aren't so bad that I have any inclination to go through with it, and the only thing I'm really concerned about at the moment is sleep deprivation.

On the other hand, I'm finally getting into that novel I've been meaning to write for about the past year, so things are actually fairly okay.

dubs wills it

I get restless and pissed off for no discernible reason in the evening, like I have pent up energy I don't know how to spend. Nothing seems to alleviate it.

Another:

I sit. [Address]. A truck is backing up. I think (trying to at least), remembering: I am not a good writer, I am not a bad writer, for I am not a writer. To hold such a title, such as filmmaker, one must do more than simply dabble like a dilettante, one must create works consistently and with structural intent. I do none. I am, however, an aspirer. An apathetic, lazy one to the worst degree. There are reasons I avoid drive, success, effort and the risk of failure, though such reasons lie deep in my loins and belly. I feel far too often futureless. What can I do with my future? My life? Well, if I put my sufficiently functioning mind (based on what criteria who knows) I could do anything from become a Billionaire [sic] to committing seppuku right now, and yet as I write this I actively choose neither yet desire both. But then I think in regards to the former: what is a film with no music? A painting with no admirer? Hollywood with no love story? And I protest. Maybe the pole-vault can be hurdled, maybe it was never a pole-vault at all, or more precisely, maybe I've had both the pole and ability to clear the bar for longer than I've thought. I won't win the Olympics, or eve the HS track meet, but, maybe, if I try, I can leap up and over, the the obstacle in my once-pitiful path. Maybe. Anyway, I feel I've only shown [therapist] the diagnostics, the symptoms or side-effects, of my so-called ailments, without referencing the problem head-on. In fact, I know. In security, one is not secure without a gun; a tazer just wont cut it. Like a shore, I feel I'm being washed over by polyform tides of variable character and magnitude, that sometimes diaphanous foam carrying radiated crustaceans greets me, other times the teasing grace of a mermaid. Often it is sun, often it is dark.Yet nearby, monstrous creatures lurk, and nightly clouds loom. My domain is ungrounded, and soon squatters will come and claim more than what I am. They'll claim rights beyond what is visible, tangible. For dignity is elusive, yet wholly extant in the soul of a golden beach. Anyway, sorrow, [gloom], loneliness, excitement, glee, hope, hatred and love; these are my seven dwarves + pokemon. If only someone would trick me into eating a poison apple, then maybe I could sleep.

[that teenage angst]

A random excerpt from about 4 years ago:

Bubbles are like people. Some are big, some small; some are shinier than others, others more vibrant; some stick together, some float alone; each has their own unique color spectrum that defines them. Bubbles, too, multiply, given a little burst of air, only, like people, to eventually die. And just like people, if a bubble can evade any and all destructive forces of man or nature, then they can safely life our their lifespan, slowly evaporating, until nothing remains but a lifeless skeleton of soapy chemicals, only waiting for water to be reborn.

approximately how many inches was your head up your ass?

at least 12'

Kek

Kek

Intense exercise