I’ve got a crank on. No apparent reason, really. Which is the worse kind of cranky. If you know what it is, you can fix it. It doesn’t happen very often. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often, actually. But, yes, I’m altogether cranky. If I had a mean boss, I could blame him. I could tell him to piss off, and I’d feel better. Or I could imagine subtle ways to torture him, and that would make me feel better. If a friend owed me money and didn’t pay it back, I could blame him and feel better. If I had my cold still, I could blame that. But I’m cranky without a reason.

I want to move on. You know? I feel a little stuck. I feel really stuck. I need something new. A plan is something. A mission is something. I’ve got wanderlust. I want to be a new person now. This isn’t myLuckyBreak. I figured that out already. That’s not why you will still find me here. I like this, mostly. And I’m not talking about just this. I just want to move on. I want something different.

I’m tired of my keyboard. It’s predictable. I’m tired of my walls. They are predictable. I’m tired of my shoes and my socks and where I itch; all predictable. I’m tired of porn and masturbation. I’m tired of the color of the sky at 5:45 pm. I’m tired of my sheets. I’m tired of my clothes. I’m tired of my cologne, my bath foam, everything under my sink.

This should surprise nobody. I make my own cage. I design it and plan it and construct it passionately, lovingly, and I build it around myself, and when I’m stuck on the inside I look at my view for a while. And then I flip out. I want to break out.

I am not built for stability. I cannot tolerate predictability. In life, in friends, in plotlines. It’s so obvious. He blacks out when gets angry. He killed the dog. He obviously killed the dog. There are enough clues already and I’m only 60 pages in. And his mother isn’t dead either. (I’m reading a book; I might not finish it because I know how it will go – and I won’t tell you which one in case you’re reading it or about to read it.)

When I wake up, I don’t want to know just how it will go. I can’t even paint. I know what I want a painting to look like when I start; and I’ll fight with it for five minutes, for five days, for five months until it looks like I meant it to.

I want an unequal reaction. I want to take more than I put. I want to mix blue and yellow and get purple. I want to do an ordinary thing and have an extraordinary result. When will 1 and 1 be three?

Stability is an overrated quality. Perfectly stable is perfectly predictable. And if you can perfectly predict a thing, an event, an occasion, it is no longer necessary.

SS