Dirty Dishes

I'm a little ninja, short and stout.
I take the loot and hearthstone out.
Though the kids on Teamspeak scream and shout,
I'm the priest in full Devout.

Dishes stack up on my desk where I eat every day; I just move them to the side. Eventually that side of the desk will get full and I'll start putting them on the floor. The trash can will fill up. Twice. Three times. I still won't have taken the trash out.

I've stopped caring that the apartment looks like shit. Fuck, smells like shit. After walking barefoot into the kitchen only to have my feet stick to the floor, I started to clean up, but figured why bother. There's only so long you can live with a messy person before you give up not only on him, but your surroundings and yourself. It's pointless for me to clean off the stove after I use it because he sure as hell won't. The dustrags have accumulated more dust on the shelf in the closet than they have from the furniture in the apartment. The handsoap in the bathroom...yeah...that's the joke of the year.

We do absolutely nothing. Neither of us has a real job right now, and neither of us has gone out of his way to secure a new one. We just don't care. We wake up, we play some not-so-random waste-of-time videogame. All day. We go to bed.

To be quite honest, I don't remember when the last time I heard him take a shower was. But to be quite honest, the empty yogurt cups on my bedroom floor and pile of dirty clothes give about as much of a damn as I do.

I just don't have the energy to care anymore. I'm stuck in America.

If my entire soul could form one sentence, it'd probably be that: I'm stuck in America.

There's absolutely nothing waiting for me in Canada and I know it. I'll never see anyone or do anything there. I won't be any bigger of a person. I won't change.

But.

I dunno.

Sometimes you've got to just...go. Away. Far away.

Sure, no one will appreciate me any more there. No one will give any more of a shit what I do or don't do there. It will in almost every way be the same as living here.

That doesn't stop me from wanting to be hit by a bus for still being here, though.

You know, I thought about when I used to be masochistic, and I realized that I'm too fucking lazy to be a masochist now. It seriously takes too much time and effort. I'd rather rot away in front of a CGI elf incessantly clicking a little graphic that causes a green bar to move from left to right, thus making some other pathetic asshole happy that his CGI gnome is "alive" instead of "dead."

Although letting gnomes die secretly makes me feel good.

I don't really know what I'm looking at when I look at online classifieds. I read about people my age getting jobs playing music or at some firm doing interviews or working at important sounding company jobs. My portfolio consists of nothing but pseudo-edibles. I think now and then how much I fucked myself walking out of the newspaper, how I could've been going on my fourth year as a full time, respectable business reporter.

There's no sense thinking about that now, though. I pulled the trigger, the bullet went though my foot. No sense complaining. Just, you know, it sucks to think about that kind of mistake.

Harumph.

Talking to someone yesterday about the usual (depression, religion, gaming) I realized how much self-confidence I had when I was hugely depressive. I'd do anything, say whatever I wanted, try anything. It was probably more that I didn't care what happened to me than the fact that I had any balls about anything, but I look at myself now and I see the change. I second guess myself about everything, I have no pride or confidence in anything I do, I'm back to hating how I look and other vain things. I feel worthless. I act worthless.

I don't even do anything creative. Hell if I can even remember how to code HTML now. I haven't drawn or painted anything in eons. I don't even really write, and it's all choppy crap when I do. I haven't even gotten off my ass long enough to take a picture of anything, not even a non-artistic snapshot.

I'm just bitching about everything. I'd be better off not even bothering to write about it.

Blech.

If I could buy alcohol, I'd have drunken myself to death by now.