8252308

It seems I don't have many personal feelings. the truth is, I'm too busy thinking to notice I'm sad. I went grocery shopping. 10:15 on a saturday night and the shelves of safeway don't have what I'm looking for. A slightly drunk, slightly Mexican man in the aisle next to me sounds the highest degree of overzealous as he describes to his friend how drunk he's going to get. I didn't know whether to laugh or be annoyed.

Me. My basket. Three lonely items, all overpackaged and almost ready to eat. This is my Saturday night. I never make plans. I wait for people to call, but they don't. I'm sick of these weekends, but it beats the terrible pain and anxiety of being social.

I sit at home, turn my amp toward the window, and play my electric bebop bass lines. I play them for all those people who congregate on the patio of the apartment below, but they just close their door and listen to Eminem. Doesn't matter, my music soothes me. My music soothes me.

I could do a lot, but I just improvise. Just like writing, I never put my whole self into the creation, just let it happen as easy as it can. I experience occasional bursts of determination, but my thoughts are much too mixed up. Everything's a traffic-jam, I can feel it, as my thoughts clog my neural network. I can't use any of them, until I get them all out, but they're moving like driving in snow. I'd blame it on the drugs, on the alcohol, but I know I was diagnosed like this before I ever touched any of that. Maybe this ADD is for real. I've been denying it all these years, maybe I really need something to speed up my process.