02.05.26
What if one of these entries was written entirely in perfect Spanish? That would be funny I think. Okay.
02.14.26
Today is Valentine’s Day, named after the martyred Saint Valentine, who happened to be a patron saint of fucking epilepsy and beekeepers. Yeah man, you’re the saint of romance, but also beekeepers for some reason, and people who have seizures. Apparently he cured a young boy of falling disease, which is what they called epilepsy at the time because they didn’t know shit, so that became his patronage.
Anyway, enough about that asshole, today I wanted to write about something I haven’t really touched on in any of my past posts. I will be describing, in graphic detail, all of my sexual encounters. I mean it’s the day of love, so what better thing to write about?
No, I’m just kidding. I’m not going to do that.
02.19.26
My finger tips are so butchered and scarred and callused, it feels like there’s a shell on them at times. It dampens my tactile senses on those fingers in a way that brings about a strange sensation. This isn’t new, it comes around every winter and usually leaves by the spring.
02.22.26
I like to think I’ve been working on myself, trying to improve my being in some way or another. Maybe I am, maybe I’m not, I’m not really sure. My mind feels like it’s in a better place, I don’t get as anxious anymore, and I haven’t felt entirely dissociated in over a month. I don’t really know what has changed in the time between, but I try not to question it anymore. In the past I would feel some sort of imposter syndrome for feeling good without a “real” reason to feel that way. I would feel like I hadn’t done anything to deserve feeling better, but I’m trying not to do that anymore. I’m trying to be better at not ruining a good thing by asking why I deserve said good thing. I used to do that a lot, and I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had allowed those things to be good.
I know I’ve let my physical being fall more and more into disarray. I don’t take care of my body as much as I need to, but god it’s hard. Waking up is hard, getting out of bed is hard, taking showers is hard, brushing my teeth is hard, being anywhere on time is hard. Writing in this blog is hard, but I have my reasons to do so.
02.25.26
I wonder if ever I will come to a point where I am fully content with what I have done in my life, or the decisions I have made. Obviously I can find temporary satisfaction after doing something positive, I can find some pride in working on myself in a progressive manner, but I don’t know if I will ever be completely happy with myself. I think there will always be some part of me that I deem imperfect no matter my being or my place in life.
I think the crux of the issue stems from my lack of self-respect, which seems obvious, but I don’t mean it in the sense that I don’t care to look after myself, I mean it in the sense that I don’t prioritize myself above anyone, really. I think the only times that I have really worked on myself in a meaningful way was for someone else, whether they asked for it or not. I used to only think to do something if it meant that it made someone else happier. I never cared about myself, my mental and physical wellbeing, nearly at all. I was afraid that people would be uncomfortable around me or upset with me for some reason, and I would try to appease that in whatever way I could. I don’t know that I actually quelled any of those problems, honestly I probably caused more harm than good by doing that, but I wanted to try. I try to work on things or please people when there was never an indication that I needed to do so.
03.02.26
Crazy weather we’re having, huh? I don’t remember much of how my spring went last year. My mom’s diagnosis was sometime in April of last year, but I really don’t know what happened before or after, it’s all very cloudy. I can’t remember what the weather was like, I can’t remember how I was feeling, I can’t remember what I was doing, I just can’t remember. I know I did karaoke in March, and I know I went to San Diego in May, but there’s almost nothing else from that time that I can recall. I think that’s understandable given the circumstances, but I think only now am I realizing how distant all of that feels. I remember things starting from when I returned from San Diego, I remember June fairly well.
I think I inadvertently reflect on past years to try to determine how the current year will go. I don’t like how that sounds, but I don’t know how else to say it. When I was younger I was convinced that February was the worst month of the year, because, historically, it was when I was most depressed. It became a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. I would assume my February was going to be bad because it had been in the past, and that assumption would kind of inadvertently guide me into a bad headspace, thus making the month poor.
Perhaps I’m too sentimental, or too introspective, but I have a hard time forgetting things I have experienced when I come upon their anniversaries. I try not to let what has happened in my past shape what happens in my future, but sometimes it’s hard for me to know where to go. Sometimes it feels like everything would be easier if I had someone telling me what I needed to do, or where I needed to go. I wish I was better at figuring out how to manage these situations or feelings, if only to help others when they come to me with similar issues. I wish I was better at helping friends. I wish I was better at getting it right the first time. I wish I was better at a lot of things.
Grub's Dirt 