From the day before

This is a Journal…..Jourrrrnall. I own it. My name isn’t important.

I have Dysgraphia, so many people won’t be able to read this. It’s a bullshit disease that is particularly impactful on handwriting and anything that has to do with steady hand control. Sometimes I just write words that aren’t even in my head, they appear on this page, and I have to go back and fix it. It’s bullshit. It’s also likely genetic but I’m not gonna have kids, so that’s aaaaaaaaaa-okkkkkk.

Why start writing a journal? My girl left me. She fucking blipped out. I had a breakdown, called a psychiatrist friend of mine, and she suggested I start this shit. I don’t know who I’m writing to, but I'm assuming you know me or you just found this on a random corpse who wears a lot of dark shades.

These are my thoughts and feelings. Feelings have friends, but can a thought be lonely? Ask my students as they seem to have so few. I don't remember having friendly feelings. I know I have them, but I can’t seem to remember where they went. Everything is pastel. My highs are always straining for the middle-bar of excitement and my lows are deep and well entrenched. I don’t remember the last time I felt true joy, with the exception of surfing on a nice clean wave with no one else near me.

This world sucks. Everything feels like a race, and everyone is so in-tune with social media and trying to outperform each other that contentment is seen as a disease of a past generation.

Is that what I did wrong? Was I too content?

I’m gonna shrug it all off by tomorrow I’m sure. It’s another day at work, another lesson to give. Hopefully, my students understand something in my teaching.

I Hope.