#just.. yeah. getting my benefits sorted and that washing machine taken care of and yeah. having money for this

[the-kipsabian]

the world has been feeding me so much garbage recently

and then all of a sudden everything clicks back into place and it feels almost too good to be true

anyways i have a tattoo appointment next week LMAO

[pastorwithdepression]

So why am I doing this? Is this some sad plea for understanding or do I just like the sound of the clacking keyboard as I type out my thoughts on screen? Maybe it’s cause I just watched that Elisa Lam documentary and it felt somewhat cathartic to hear about someone’s depression. Maybe it’s cause I just watched First Reformed and I’m trying to imitate Rev. Toller’s one year journal. Maybe I’m hoping someone will read this and someone will care. Maybe it’s all just bullshit and it’s something to do and something I’ll abandon in a week or two when something new and shiny comes along. All I know is that it’s something to try. I know I have too many thoughts in my head and I need to get them out. Why post online? Idk. Just writing in Bear seems pointless and feels boring. Writing online feels both more desperate - as if I need someone to hear me - and more...I struggle with the word. Helpful? Too whom? Myself? To others? Not sure...but oh God wouldn’t it be cool if there was someone out there like me that needs to read or see this? Someone that reads these words and thinks, “damn, it’s good to know that I’m not alone. It feels like someone understands my soul. Like they have dipped their ladle into the waters of my soul and have taken a long, needed drink?” That would be cool. Then maybe I will have helped someone. Maybe my life would have mattered or maybe my life matters.

Either way, it’s all bullshit thinking.

I’m sure this will go unnoticed like everything else in life. An insignificant blog post in an endless sea of blog posts. More digital noise. But it’s sort of comforting to think that. To just disappear or wash away like a message written in the sand on the shore of a beach. Just there and gone. No footprint. No evidence. You get the release of having said it, having confessed it, then it’s gone. That’s nice.

Confession and confession booths. Sometimes I wish I was catholic so I could go to confession. Sit in a dark booth and have someone really listen to me cause they have too. Cause it’s their godly mandate. What happens when a priest listens to a confesser (is that even a word) and doesn’t really give a shit? Is God angry? Do they have to go to confession themselves to be absolved? Sometimes you just need to talk. I go to a therapist but I have to look at the therapist in the eye and see his eyes glaze over or that look of eventual indifference to my woeful dronings. Who wants to pay for that nonsense. If I want to be judged for my banality, I certainly don’t want to pay for it. I need a robot that I can talk too. A machine that can talk back but is incapable of judging. All the benefits of approximated intimacy without the humanity of it because it’s the humanity in us that makes us tire and lose our patience. Maybe that’s why I’m writing. Cause even talking to God becomes difficult when you are saying the same thing again over and over. Is God present? Sure. Does he care? I’m told he must. Is he carrying me when I am too tired to walk? I guess so or so I was told in Sunday school. But something about God feeling, understanding, and knowing every hair on my head, irritates me. It’s easier to talk to a computer that is unable to respond back because I feel like I can piss and moan and it can never judge me, love me, be annoyed by me, or have any opinion of me regardless of how long I blather on and on about the same shit. Feels good to blather. Maybe that’s why I’m doing this. Yeah maybe.