Job Hunts and Weed
Back from another hiatus. Last week I was killing it, I mean I was really hustling my ass off and it felt great; running (or walking miles) all over Columbus trying to find a job and during the time in-between writing and reading as much as I could. My best moods appear a) when I’m seeing a girl I’m really into, b) when I’m going places I’ve never seen before, and c) when I’m feeling like a genius (some call it confident) and writing well. Since I’ve come out to Columbus one of the most important things I’ve realized is that I’m only happy and in high spirits, ready to take on the world and conquer life, when I’m writing. If I don’t spend the better part of the day scribbling away at something I feel like a piece of shit, as if I’m wasting my time, my life and getting not a thing accomplished.
Last week, as I said, I was in a great mood. I had lots going on, interviews and a wonderful story I was working on. I was also reading deep into existential works and I participated in a Flash Fiction contest (I posted the story: How to Ride the Bus). But on Thursday night I went to go hangout with some friends and I drank, well I guess I pounded like nine beers real quick. Then me and Greg went to pick up some bud, he went, I went along with. The kid ended up smoking us up a shit load and I ended up wobbling home. Seriously. The plan had been to pick up the bag, then go back to the other kid’s house to smoke. Then the kid whom Greg was picking up from decided to pack, well, I don’t know, like four bowls while we were outside hiding in the service door-way of some OSU building. I told Greg I couldn’t go back, I had to go home. He said whatever and I walked off. I realized shortly after that I had no clue where I was, and after three of four phone calls Greg still wasn’t answering his phone — I was going to tell him to come find me haha. Eventually I figured it out and I was walking down High Street, go figure, but that’s the main road and we live right off of it so I made it back no problem, except that I was wobbling across the sidewalk, swooping and meandering and waiting for a cop to approach. The thing was, I knew I was wasted to a point I haven’t experienced in years, since freshmen year at WVU (great times on the Stoner Steps, who’s got me?), I knew I was wobbling all over the place and as I much as I tried I couldn’t help it, my eyes themselves were wobbling in their sockets. I made it back, tried to eat, puked in the bathtub and went to bed. I scribbled a sign that said ‘Out of Service. Will fix akdgaso’. My handwriting devolved into incoherent scribbles. The point to all this is that every time I get a great streak going, when I have all of this momentum to write and succeed and make smart choices, it only ends when I get fucked up. That’s when I hit the rut. That’s when the melancholy seeps through. Keep writing. It’s the only thing I can do.