items not used in months, years maybe, are unceremoniously tossed in brown bags, hopefully to be ignored by someone else. i take care not to reminisce on got-this-when/where, lest i just end up taking a stroll down memory lane; this is my own special revolt against (my) materialism.

i imagine that the orderliness forcefully stamped on every cabinet, drawer, table will sublimate into my psyche. quotidian bs eclipses all these magnificent worries: where will we live? where will i get a job? where will i go to school? will i finally be courageous enough to do what i want? or will i succumb (as usual) to the wishes of another?

i haven't kept a physical journal since, well, senior year of college. reincarnation after reincarnation, it was my constant companion as far back as i can remember. why don't i now? because i am afraid of what i might write. i hope to forget what i think and that a lack of evidence will facilitate forgetting. instead, i think i've created this time-loop, where i (unwittingly? or is it consequently?!?) step in the same cat vomit ad fucking nauseam.

ah, i am such a self-pitying fuck.