I am unsure of how to entertain myself presently. There is a beetle stuck in a small crevasse by the balcony sliding door. It is struggling to no avail. I am unsure of how to help without squishing. Best leave it be. Weather is supposed to become quite warm. I’ll have to shave. Dear me. Monsters still asleep, though at brief moments grumbling. I feel my body is confused as to why I do not give it adequate exercise or nutrition. I myself am confused. It is a simple enough task. Lulu is asleep in the other room. Lulu is a human, names have been changed to protect identities. Ha. My name is Dudu. Do the strangers on here known my name, has that been made available? My clown name is Dudu. Or will be. I’m in theatre school, for those who are unaware. In Toronto. Oh dear, how dangerous. As if all my personal information isn’t already on the interweb. All of ours, I’m sure.
Moving expenses. Oh me oh my. Tips on moving, I’ll be needing. Be asking for. One more week at home. Then I’m off! It is intimidating, doing so much alone, the whole independence thing is a challenge. It can be lonely. Things have been lonely for some time. Quite sometime. Years-ish. But that’s shifting, slowly.
I’ve had popcorn and a touch of chocolate for dinner. Oh, and a glass of juice. Useless, nutritionally, but light and satisfying otherwise. I could ramble on for minutes, but I want it to be meaningful. I want life to be meaningful. Oh, the beetle got out. Good for it. A little effort can go a long way. My spelling is becoming atrocious. I typed “along way” at first. No no, tisk tisk. I want some romance. I miss the warm, fuzzy feelings. I’d be happy with a brief fling, or just a solid flirtation. Toronto will provide, somehow. Just something to smile about would be fine, universe. Something to remind me that I’m attractive and relevant to the opposite, or same, sex. Oh, the same sex, you’ve been put on the back burner, romance wise. It scares me. The closet is a lot safer. But I love women. I really do. I don’t know how that would work. I have little to no experience with the same sex. I’m still young, it’s not a problem.
I am often checking Facebook, checking my email, hoping for some word from the outside. Am I alone in my desperation? That’s the only word I can use honestly, desperation. I am desperate for human contact, for something to touch me deeper than the barest of surfaces. That’s where art comes in. Art stabs the heart directly. Good art, at least, though sometimes a tickle is enough. Some art is meant to tickle, some to probe, and some to stab relentlessly at the vital organs. Gucky muck guck! That beetle is crawling around, very slowly, on the balcony floor.
I get violent images that flash through my mind sometimes. I don’t know why. They are quick and for the most part painless. Sometimes things that happen to me, sometimes to others. There’s a deep self-hatred somewhere in me, somehow. I hope it doesn’t turn into cancer. I hope I can get it out. I’m not strong enough even to think about it, even to look back and remember it is there, because it is so potent, it consumes me so effortlessly. I have been immaculately trained in self-destruction, by various forces in my life. Does my little beetle friend understand me? I am looking at it. This beetle, who must struggle so hard for life everyday, to preserve it’s short life. A friend once suggested that higher powers look at us as we do bugs, with such ease, with such wisdom of the world, and we are just as oblivious as the beetle which I describe. Could it be so? Does a god watch me now, do my little chores and activities, watching me patiently, moved, inspired, indifferent? This is heavy, I can feel it weigh inside of me.
Time to watch This Hour Has 22 Minutes. Thank goodness for comedy.