Pleasure, like coke, hasn’t been pure since the seventies
I called my boyfriend today and we spoke at length about how fucking discouraging it is to be an artist in today’s world. Especially when you’re dirt broke like we are. It made me realize I haven’t just laid down and written some bullshit on this blog just for the PURE PLEASURE OF WRITING!
Pleasure, like coke, hasn’t been pure since the seventies. I feel as if my brain is sloshing about in my skull, like my pleasure receptors have dissolved into ash from too much sex and tiktok and working a job i hate. I’ve had real issues with sleeping recently, too.
I’ve honestly had issues with sleeping for my entire life, but it used to be the inability to fall asleep (7 years of crippling insomnia was somehow cured by my boyfriend moving in. miracle drug) and now i am physically unable to WAKE UP!!
I took my dad to see Mulholland Drive tonight, and I am a crazy fucking David Lynch fan… we got ten minutes in, I laid on his shoulder and fell right asleep. I woke back up to the director guy pouring pink paint into the jewelery box, right back to sleep. Awake again to the singing part, which is like my favorite so thank God, and then the final part I was conscious for was fucking Diane killing herself. I saw probably 20 total minutes of a 2 hour film. WHAT?? Thank God I have seen it a gross amount of times because otherwise I would’ve been more pissed at myself. This exact same scenario happened last week, too. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I stay up too late, I sleep too hard, and I’m exhausted all day. I feel like I’m missing out on living because I’m so wrapped up in resting.
After the movie my dad and I decided to stress each other out about the usual things… money… my apartment situation… my boyfriend’s visa… the fact my dad is moving away for a year… my job… my boyfriends job… my sisters job… my job again and how much i hate it … my mothers funeral … if i’m able to get time off work to attend my mothers funeral… all great things
My dad finished our ranting with telling me that all he wants is for me to be happy and make it as a writer. Me too, me too. I suppose that means I need to write as much as I used to. But (and everyone has used this excuse) it’s so much easier to create when you’re unemployed. Or devoid of distractions, stressors, whatever. But I need a job and my life is stress. Am I just going to give up on writing because it’s hard?
No… Gabriella you are going to go to sleep and wake up at nine. You are going to read more, write more, eat better, be kind to the world and yourself, and you are going to scrape whatever enjoyment you can from your life.
I am in love! I have amazing friends! I have a father who loves me, a boyfriend who is kind and that I adore, I live in a beautiful city. There are points to my misery but I’d rather delude myself than continue on feeling like I’m holding a world on my back. I’m far too weak, my arms hurt from even leaning on them.
Maybe happiness is just about chasing the pleasures that you can have. Or maybe that’s just the key to mine!