A journey to San Francisco to become no less than Me. (BLOG REBOOT: Former site of Hairy Legs.)

For some reason, as anyone who gives a shit might be aware, I haven’t been writing for a very long time.  Part of it’s to do with not having a computer, except I’ve written during computerless times in my life before, so most of it’s to do with the worst creative constipation I’ve ever had.  When I lost my computer, I lost everything I’d ever written over the last 9 years and it was a bit of a suckerpunch to the gut.  But that’s not everything either.

I guess the thing that’s been scaring me off from writing for so long is that every time I touch the keyboard, there’s so much to update from last time that I just get a little more overwhelmed each time I try.  So in the interest of my mental health, because I’m so FUCKING tired of people constantly asking me how I am, what I’m doing, where I’m living, and so forth, I’m going to keep the update section as stunted as possible while not making you stupidly curious.  The details are unimportant; just know that I’m safe.

  • 1) I’m now living in an apartment. WOO
  • 2) I have a job and it involves making money.  WOO
  • 3) I’m on hormones for 4 months now, my name has been changed for 3 months now, and I guess you could just say all my transitional care is up to snuff.  WOO

Now that you no longer have any concerns about me dying on the streets or anything, I guess we’re good.

I’d like to get back to that state where I’d write about the things that concerned me as a cathartic way of processing my viewpoints and figuring out just what the hell was going on in my little world.  Writing was always a good way of figuring up from down, and having lost it I really feel like I’ve lost my most important point for reference.  If I can just get to where I’m writing about one pointless thing at the end of the day again, not for the sake of anyone else’s entertainment, but just to grease up the cogs, it might do a lot for my mental health.

I do miss the feel of my fingers running over the keyboard; it feels much the way I’d assume a concert pianist feels, except hundreds of people aren’t watching me type, and also you can’t exactly backspace a misplayed note, so I guess it’s really nothing like it in the end, so dismiss that sentiment.  The point is, it feels good to put your fingers to use doing something you’re objectively “good” at.

I have to be up at 6:30am to go to work, and it’s 1:30, so I guess it’d be better to go to bed.

I guess the main demon I’ve been struggling with lately is the feeling of utter emptiness.  The feeling that there should be SOMETHING stirring my passion, something I should actually want to do, somewhere I should want to go, someone I should want to be with, something I should have some kind of opinion on, something I should say, or do, or create, but really, there’s just NOTHING.  I can’t come up with anything worth saying that isn’t just some mindless, pointless, overplayed tripe that nobody’s going to care about.  There’s nothing in this post worth reading and I get that feeling that I shouldn’t even have bothered writing it, except for the sole purpose of loosening up my fingers. 

 I miss getting stupidly excited over dumb things, developing pointless fixations on t.v. shows or book characters or events I was going to go to, trips I was planning, costumes I was putting together, silly things like that.  I miss hobbies.  I miss having that feel that it was okay to pursue a dumb hobby even if it wasted a bit of money, because hey, if I waste a bit of money it’s not as if it’s a life and death situation that will put me out on the streets, right?  Except that’s now the life I’ve been living for half a year, and it’s tearing me apart.  It’s taught me the value of a dollar in a way I never wanted to learn, in a way that makes me afraid to spend money on soap and makes me feel guilty for taking my partner out for breakfast when we could have just spend food stamps on corn flakes and ate at home.  It’s making me afraid to waste any resources, or time, or effort, on anything unrelated directly to survival.  And so when I spend any time thinking about things that could just be fun, a STOP THAT mechanism kicks right in.  

I’m unable to feel.

Huh.  And I thought sitting here and just freestyle writing wouldn’t turn up anything of value on the first post.  I’ve already had my first revelation- how homelessness completely destroys your ability to enjoy anything ever again.  Somber.

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