Maybe its just all this falling down but I’m kind of upset. Or frustrated. All I want to do is leave this country, I hate the how financially difficult that is to do, and how I just don’t have the time. I wanted to just buy a ticket to Paris for my birthday, I calculated it out and I’d have just enough to make it there and barely survive if I worked the same hours I’ve been working and saved $100 a week. But the issue is I don’t have the money NOW, so my dreams go up like a heaping pile of crisp bills and gasoline. Fuck.
This isn’t something new, this is a desire that is constantly in me, hurting me, this desire to hop on a plane and leave. For once I may be able to do it but my job now doesn’t offer truly enough hours and I don’t want to be working 7 days a week again, this is all trouble. And as much as I want to find myself in a strange country alone, I really want someone to follow me. Maybe I should go to Portugal and find Oliver. Why France? Because it’s like the natural fucking pilgrimage of pastry chefs, they should build a giant napoleon or something for us all to march around.
My room is a disaster, my writing is a disaster. It’s been invaded by marine wildlife, it’s a fucking massacre of words. I’m feeling slightly manic and terribly restless. I need some coffee, rather, I need some not coffee. I need to stop thinking these distracting thoughts that send fantastic chills up my spine and make it difficult for me to think, to drive.
You, you did this to me, and I hate you for it. Hate in the sense that I want you around me all the time. Hate in the sense that I refuse to trust you as much as my mind is willing me to. Hate in the sense that all my creative inhibitions dropped and I can’t control what my hands are doing anymore.