I keep wanting to draw, but I can't draw anything. I mean at the moment, but the reason I can't draw anything at the moment is because I'm starting to feel like I just can't draw anything at all. Ever. Like, I suck at it. You know? I know. You should know that I know. 

I keep wanting to write something but it just doesn't seem possible. I mean, I'm writing right now, but that's not what I mean, you know what I mean? I mean...like, I want to write SOMETHING. I guess the next great American novel or some bullshit like that, as if I even give a fuck about America or anything that has to do with making it great again. All of that business can just fuck right off forever. 

I keep wanting to be in love again except for that fact that I think that love part of me is broken permanently and I also don't really feel like I want to touch anyone or be intimate with anyone or have to tell anyone where I'm going or what I'm doing or what I'm doing that with or how long I'll be gone or that it's fucking over. 

I keep wanting to make something of myself but I know that it's not possible because I'm never the same person from one moment to the next and the lack of consistency makes me move so fucking slowly compared to the relative speed of the civilized world that I end up looking like I'm some sort of child, or retard, or retarded child...it's okay for me to say "retard" because my uncle has Downs-syndrome. It's okay for me to say "crazy" even though it's technically a fucking micro-aggression because I actually happen to be CRAZY. But that's it, those are the only words it's okay for me to say...the rest of the words that come out of my mouth come out like knifes and bullets and nuclear fucking weapons because my dad has always said that I bring nukes to a gun fight. 

That's his funny way of saying I'm fucking crazy, but it would also be okay for him to just say the word "crazy" because he has a crazy son. 

I keep thinking that one day I am going to compile some of my writing into a book of some sort and then people are going to read it and they will think "What a misunderstood and tortured genius this man was" because I will also probably be dead by the time anyone gives a fuck...which is actually just what I tell myself because it makes living through this life easier when I imagine how glorious my life will be when I'm dead. And the best part about this little fantasy is that when I'm dead it probably won't actually even matter all that much. 

I keep working jobs and getting money even though I have no need or use for money anymore beyond...well, I guess I just need it to exist, but lately I have been thinking about how nice it would be to be homeless again, except this time maybe forever. Just not have to fuck with anything or do anything or be anything or go anywhere or do anything or live anyway or be anything or do anything or be anything or do anything. 

I keep sleeping...a lot. Probably too much, like ten to twelve hours a "night", and I love it more than I love being awake, because I don't love being awake, I kind of hate it. In my dreams I can fly and I live with a woman and her daughter, but she's not my girlfriend and she's not my daughter, but they're nice to me sort of...and in my dreams I get to see my ex's, which actually isn't a pleasant experience because they're never nice to me, so I actually don't know why I brought that up. But I get to hang out with some of my other friends who don't live anywhere near me, and it's always nice to see them. My dreams are always in the same place, some run down city that's cold and dark and wet and I know that it's Utah even though I fucking hate Utah more than anything. 

I keep not killing myself. 

This one is tricky. 
This one is kind of weird...because I also keep not wanting to live. 
So why do I do it?
Or why don't I do it? 
I actually have no idea...I can't tell you anymore. I have no good reason for living other than it's just what I'm doing I guess...I don't want to hurt anyone, but that's only part of it. Morbid curiosity is maybe another part, I suppose...maybe a part of me just hates myself so much that I keep living so that I can go through the abuse? 

I have no idea. 

My mom's ex husbands youngest son is missing right now. 
He's been missing for about two weeks.