I'm starting this blog for myself, to have a place to write down how I feel. Like a journal of some sort, except it's published online. So why not just keep your thoughts to yourself like any journal-writer would do? Not sure.
I came back from New York two weeks and two days ago, and ever since it's been off. I've been off. I'd like to think New York is my home and so going away is... it's terrible. I'm with my parents which is weird because I already moved out of the house, so moving back in is strange. My mom had a surgery a little less than a month ago in the ankle from an old accident and so she can't step on her leg at all. Carrying wheelchairs up and down stairs FTW. Anyway, because she can't walk or stand up, I end up doing chores around the house. Wash the dishes, cook every now and then, do laundry, etc. And it's fine I guess. Not really, but it has to be. I mean, my parents do everything for me. It's only fair I help out.
I applied to a few jobs. No one called back. It makes me wonder if I'm capable of doing anything. I claim to be 'a screenwriter' but what the fuck gives me the right to say that? I am awful, I don't have good ideas, my dialogue is worse than average. For a while I hanged all of my hopes on being a writer, but truth be told, I can't write. I mean, yeah I got mostly good grades in my English classes throughout the years, but that's because I went to schools where people never cared. In today's culture, people find it fitting to write garbage with misspelled words and slang and first person in academic writings. I know better than to do that, but that doesn't make me a better writer than anybody else. Just a little more serious. I'm not good at anything, and every time I say it to someone they think I'm seeking attention and compliments. It isn't like that. I just ... I can't see myself doing anything right. I never do anything right. I'm a bad person. I'm a selfish person. I'm a stupid person. I'm a monster with no skills and no motivation.
That's another thing. No motivation. I've been here two and a half weeks during which I've done absolutely nothing productive. Sure, I rewrote 60 pages of a screenplay but it's still horrific and corny to the point of being disgusting. Sure, I cooked and washed dishes and emptied the dishwasher and folded laundry, but that doesn't mean anything. Sure, I read two screenplays and watched a few films. But I also have been mean to my parents. Impatient. I was lazy and woke up late. I didn't watch enough films. I haven't read any books. I haven't fixed any short scripts. I haven't started a new feature. I haven't found a job. -I haven't looked hard enough. I haven't driven. I haven't composed anything on the guitar. I haven't stayed away from him. I made a fool of myself yet again. I haven't started a novel. And I haven't been there for my parents. I'm here physically, but my mind is elsewhere. Even I don't know where it is. I just don't want to do anything. I just want to be left alone and not deal with anything and let life slip away.
I'm listening to music on Spotify and trying not to think about anything, but it's hard. Being stuck inside my head is the worst feeling because I slaughter myself internally for everything. You don't have to tell me I'm stupid and ugly and self-centered and lazy and useless and boring and mean. I already know it all. I'm my worst enemy and it's something I've been dealing with for some time. Whatever. I'm dwelling on shit that hasn't changed, I should be used to this by now.
I love how people always say that you should look at those kids in Africa who live in poverty and hunger and disease, but honestly, it's hard. It's very hard. Because they're so far away. And I'm here. And I may have a nice computer and cool apps on it, and programs to edit and write scripts in, and headphones, and books, and cameras even if they suck, and my parents' love, but it doesn't heal me. It doesn't heal my mind, the scars from thoughts about forbidden scenarios and possibilities, the hatred toward myself. I'm starting to believe that if you can't love yourself then no one can love you. And you probably can't really love anything. I wish I had the monetary means to pay for a shrink. But, no job, so...
I don't know what I'm going to do in the next three and a half months. Actually, I do know. Probably sit on my ass, watch TV, write bullshit screenplay pages that will never ever become anything, and drown my misery in tweets, playlists, and food.
Peace out. Hope your days are going better than mine.
