I can't lie: there's a lot to be excited about. There's a lot going on, a big wide future to look forward to and a pretty fantastic present moment to try to sink one's sloth hooks into. Things are objectively alright, I suppose. But in the spirit of not lying, I feel like I'm practicing, again, admitting how miserable I am. Pretty Fucking Miserable (PFM) actually. I think I'm getting sick, and I feel really awful about it. Sometime last week I think I just started falling down inside. I couldn't sleep well or feel rested. I have some kind of respiratory something, likely a result of smoking so much recently. I can't think straight. I feel anxious and nervous and angry all the time. Getting through the week felt really impossible. No amount of rest of relaxation or meditating or going to the gym or shutting up or asking for help or drinking or not drinking seemed to make any difference. BY Friday afternoon I could barely sit upright or stay awake at work. I came home, intending to go to the gym and go out for the night, but I passed out at 6pm. I woke up at 8 and laid in my bed moaning about the fact that I felt too shitty to leave the house. I ate some anxiety medication and watched TV and fell asleep and feel like a real fucking failure for it. Saturday I went to the gym out to lunch and went window shopping, still feeling a little bit woozy. I tried to go to this reading in Bushwick but I got there right as it ended. I'm such an asshole. I hung out with Paps and PLD and Teebs and Lola for a minute and that did feel pretty good. PLD and I went to a party in Manhattan that we got an e-mail invite about RSVPing to, so the frosty queen at the door checked our names off the list and sent is to the entry line downstairs where we waited for 10 minutes, only to be told that the cover charge was $20. But it included a free drink. So no thanks, guys. Jesus. We took the train with Miss Gerry Visco, which was kind of the highlight, then went back to Wburg and I got food and passed out at 3:30 am, fairly sober. I woke up at 1pm today and I feel like hell. I Went grocery shopping and that feels like all I can do.

There's a story I need to finish this week. I need to practice singing because I'm performing on Wednesday night at The Spectrum. I'm really excited about that, actually. I think I'm gonna sing two songs (covers) form the new place I'm singing from. If I'm not still sick. Please come! It's cheap and will be fun, I think/hope.

And every night this week I have a meeting or an engagement or something to do. I don't know when I can go to the gym or cook dinner for myself or get to bed at a reasonable hour. This gives me vertigo. I just went on vacation. I don't know what needs to happen for me to feel okay or chilled out. I need a vacation form vacation. I guess as I'm getting older, my ability to cope is sort of waning. Or just deal. God. And they're all fun things I have going on, I should be excited. But it's actually hard to breathe right now, and I'm really upset about everything. I need some help in making some changes to my life but I don't know what the changes are and I don't know what help I need and I'm not convinced that sitting with it for long enough is working, but what can you do? I'm going to a meeting in the East Village in an hour then ordering take-out and trying to fall asleep before 11pm. I don't know where my life went.

A series of things happened, I guess. I broke up with my first and most serious boyfriend of not even a year, I had a really intense and shameful psychedelic trip, Amy Winehouse died, someone I love very much had a near-death accident. Shit changed, my life left. Listening to or making music, watching or being watched, everything started to ebb and I suppose that's okay. Maybe it started earlier, when I had my tooth accident and then got a staph infection on my face. Maybe it happened before that, when all of a sudden the life I was trying to make for myself was, I realized just making me a target for ridicule from the journalists and bloggers I foolishly wanted to impress. Maybe it started earlier than that... I was reading an article about that writer who writes about her rampant drug use. I think it's so stupid. Why aren't we talking about the fact that she doesn't have to work for a living. Anyone can sit around all day taking drugs, but she's not writing about how she could be anyone. Maybe if she wrote more about that then I would read it. Who even cares.

Thank god, when I get fucked up, I look online and there's usually a new Shannon Wright record. It's usually in the summer, right when I need it. I think a lot about the summer after I first moved here when I was temping on 42nd Street (I talk about this a lot) and listening to Maps of Tacit during summer rainstorms and it really did save my life, I'm pretty sure. And things felt so dire then! Because scott panther wanted to fuck other people, that was it. I really felt like everything fell apart and it was because of that. How silly.

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