i'm not sure

 bukowski said in an interview once that he got sick when he didn't write, to the point that he couldn't function. not that he was very functional anyways (alcohol! was is the final cure or the start of the disease?). i've been getting it too. probably cabin fever or boredom, but the ideas and problems start piling up and last night, i slept four hours. 

 freud talks about the dangers of stifling the id. (yes, i know everyone you got to learn this in psych 101 and you have poured over this in your mind and digested it properly like i should have done years ago, apparently. i can never get ahead of you, can i?) i'm leaving all of my vices behind, i eat well, stay active. i'm wondering if it will all pile up inside of me and come erupting out during my midlife crisis. or maybe freud didn't have a perfect grasp on the human psyche, just like bukowski didn't have a perfect grasp on writing. they just studied both for a long, long time.

i hate when they feel entitled and whine at me. they make assumptions, i can feel it. they want a piece of me like a shark. not because they care about me, just because they like to push the boundaries because no one has ever told them no. god, i loathe it, their mommies telling them they can do no wrong and driving them to college at 18 and giving me the sideye because they know i'm such a bad influence on their perfect little angel. i can tell people like this as soon as i hear them speak. i'm not sure what i hate more, the blind ignorance of life that their sheltered, perfect upbringing gave them or the rotten, disgusting, putrid personality that they have. and i play their game! i smile at the right times and i give parts of myself to them and when i have to deny them, i do so politely. it does me no good. they know i'm not like them.

they're so, so good at the social game. i still wonder at it and i'm a quarter of a century old. how do you know what to do? with maturity i've learned imitating them is fruitless, i gain nothing from it most times. i feel so horrible awkward. i feel my lips gently exposing my teeth, knowing that my smile is so off-putting. i see the confusion in their eyes at everything i say. my words stumble over each other, tumbling to come out of my mouth, or cannot be found at all in the wasteland of my vocabulary.  i still catch myself lying, about even the smallest things, the perpetual scar of a compulsive liar. i wonder how many people have caught on. i'm sure my friends don't bring it up although they can see right through it. i've only met one person that ever challenged me on it. 

i've been trying so hard to see it from their point of view. i've been trying to be in her shoes. your parents moved too much, let you have too much freedom, or maybe not enough, just like mine. you needed to escape religion and wanted to know about love and sex, like me. see, we're not so different? you experimented and moved around and got married. but why did you let him do what he did? why were you so, so careless with your children? i know you didn't have the experience and didn't know what to do. i didn't either. but when you had a child, you were responsible for another life. i understand that. i know you were probably talked into a lot of things you didn't want to do. why did it become my problem? i was quiet and kind and i kept to myself. it shouldn't have been my cross to bear. but hey, you got what you wanted, right? and so did i.

that's all i have for now.