I am all sorts of fucked up right now. I am a zombie without the decayed flesh. I just shamble about my apartment inbetween feline-esque naps. I've two (albeit short) papers due in two days plus a score of things to do tomorrow, but I've not yet had the ambition to even attempt any sort of disection of ancient art.
Livejournal itself has little pull either. Likewise in the case of MSN. I have no real need for these things. I make the effort to see my friends, but I don't feel like I'm really there. I don't walk away with any memories or positive feelings. Not to say seeing those I claim to love is a bad thing. It just feel very surreal. Like I'm watching myself react almost mechanically to social cues.
I chase the cats around the apartment trying to coax them into hugging me. Because I feel lonely here when I can't see them. When I can't touch them. I just sleep, sprawled, unwashed and unkempt, on my bed with a single hand curled around the unresisting paw of a delicate male demi-kitten. And I feel safe then. Well, almost.
I smoke to much pot. Currently. I've been so scared to not get all messed up. I don't want to really feel the full weight of the guilt that accompanies eating. When I'm high I can forget about it and binge, and blame it on the drug, and not on me. I tried to stop smoking for a day or two and all my thoughts were consumed by the urge to damage myself and acute insomnia.
So I smoked and things felt an awful lot better.
But I do, I smoke to much. I leave my bed too little. I'm rarely even inclined to reach out past my pillow, to the nightstand beyond to take up my anti-depressants and ever-present can of something-or-other.
I need to tell Joey to help me. I don't know how. But I feel like he's the only one with the appropriate access to me now to do so.
I wish I had a cigarette and a cup of soup. But I've already had half a can of soup to settle my stomach and a 100 calorie-pack of popcorn.
I haven't answered my mother's calls in days, over a week at least. I didn't want her to hear me all fucked up, either giggling or sobbing. She's got enough to deal with. But I'm probably worrying her. I'm just pulling a Patrick. What a fuckin' hypocrite I am.
Sitting and watching old Ghostbusters episodes and whining on and on.
I wish Joey were home. I wish Joey never left. I wish I could wrap my fingers around his wrist like I do Andy's little paw, and not let go. I don't want to float away. Or, if I do, I'd like to take him with me.