It took me a minute to pick music today.

I got up late. I’m struggling with my words. I’m struggling with the fact that I should be packed up and ready to leave. I’m struggling with the fact that there is still a plague going on, and I’ve acted in ways that disappoint myself, and if I were to be honest with anyone, would disappoint them too. I feel like I’ve been halfway honest with people, half is better than I usually am, by a long shot, and people are denying the whole things.

This is not what I set out to talk about today. I sat down to say that I’m proud of myself for actually getting things done last night, even though it totally wrecks the next day, it’s better than every day just being a complete waste like when I wake up early and have a mundane day.

Anyway.

Let’s be honest, I can be here. I am a scientifically literate person, and I have not been adhering to the quarantine protocol as closely as I know I probably should. Neither has anyone I know, or so it looks, but maybe that’s what we’re all telling ourselves. I should be a better person.

I hate the fact that I always set about to explain things in terms of people, like my own perception will never be enough on it’s own and so I have to circumscribe every situation with other people’s reactions, expressions, opinions and everything else in order to give my own ideas any validity.

Otherwise I’d just be alone in this hotel room, looking at that light, wondering if I’m going crazy.

Me to the boy this weekend, while we lost our minds together. It was great, I’m trying not to read too much into it, and I think he’s not either. That could have been the breaking point.

When I skip through a song, because it sucks, but write it in the song tags, it gives me the impression that I spent longer here than I actually did. <==== I accidentally put “me” in there, but then realized that that’s all there is here, so I’m keeping it. And skipping this song.

Last night (I am going to say it I am allowed to be proud of myself and this is my life) I stayed up and wrote some paraprofessional content for the career that has funded my entire life so far. Not the direction that I want to be moving in, but in a direction that I want that to move in.

The problem with this is obvious. In that paraprofession <=== I’m keeping this terminology, I know what I’m referring too, I might change it, I might not. I don’t want to diminish it’s importance, either to me, or the other people that successfully work this job, that successfully build excellent lives in that industry, that build something that they themselves are quite proud of and others admire. I’ve done a lot of work, and had a lot of fun, and made a lot of money, and built something quite beautiful and something that is just as much me and just as much of my life as anything has ever been, and probably will ever be. And that is the problem, but the more I talk to people doing anything around here the more I’m realizing that that’s everyone’s problem. At least for me, all of these existential dilemmas are happening to someone else, someone else I’ve created to live inside my body and inside my mind while I sit back and watch. They run like the vms on my computer. When they catch a glitch, I kill them – or at least I say I’m going to, I never do.

This took a turn, no turning back. But, there are no tears today, maybe tomorrow. Instantly I thought of so many sharp edges around my mind – I wrote several things that I then deleted. I hate doing that, but I wanted to today.

Last night I finally wrote. That means that I will begin seeing people again. In person. There are people in my life. I remember writing here, talking about these horrible men in my life, and how they each think that they’re the only ones. They still do, all of them. My boyfriend doesn’t know that I see people, the boy, even though I really made what was *my* best effort to tell him, doesn’t understand that I have been intimately in contact with someone, someones, other than him. Every man that I see, I don’t mind lying to them, I put forward the impression that I see only them. Most of them appear to believe it, or at least are truly grateful for the fantasy.

Idiots, all of them. I hate to say it. And that means that, I could be just as stupid. I’m not going to lie and say that I have been crawling Tinder, maybe making contact with a man or two, but really I’m just looking for the boy’s profile.

I feel worst for my family. They know me, and they know that I am a hypocrite. And they know that I am a huge risk factor for them every single time they see me. But they love me, so they do. That fear must be painful. I wish they would believe a lie to just to make all that go away, but I know that doesn’t work, because it doesn’t work on me when they do it.

Oh, there are the tears.

I just started scrolling back, so I guess I’m done here.