I'm just too tired. I need to read and write. I need to produce rather than do all this consuming. Taking in all this junk is too unproductive and dissociative. Making junk is better than taking it. I haven't made anything in a while, in any sense. It just keeps coming in and I feel like I'm too filled and ready to burst. The only way to let it out is to...do. But what? I need doing to do. My wrist itches and flakes and tells me who I am or pretend to be. I'm getting there though. I'm fighting to end being the conduit, the sycophant. My yelling voice isn't filled with anger, it's happiness.
I'm thinking about seeing some movies
9pm @ Wealthy Street Theatre
7pm @ UICA
Me and You and Everyone We Know
?pm @ ?
The 40 Year Old Virgin