A monstrosity of bore and waste and poverty. Jealous bore.

I'm applying for jobs. I'm attempting to get a job at Java Cafe right now, meanwhile I'm now a part of Philadelphia Funny Faces.

I can't tell how I feel about my life right now. Some parts I think are good, but I am becoming more of a human in the ways I've avoided not to become.

Constantly reminded of being a know-nothing.

I realized I am young as fuck.

I've been thinking a lot lately, but I can't explain why I like things or people or why I don't care or can't retain information that has been repeated to me a million times.

Why do I know Aubrey Beardsley and Baba Yaga but not know Frank Zappa or 12 Monkeys or whatever else I should know or have listened to? Maybe because there's that fantasy element, some structure of an older era that is forever out of reach but I think I might be able to still touch it. Or some old ideal of the 'good life' (what is the 'good life'?) that I can find only back in 1920's Paris, that I can find only in A Moveable Feast and Hemingway only needs his wife and a wine and a baguette and his work to feel like happiness could actually, in one second, feel infinite. What we can't achieve so easily nowadays, poverty and happiness, even though I'm not necessarily poor, I'm scared of installing my air conditioner and I don't have internet or cable and the bills are backed up.
I'm poor, and making no money, and thinking about it makes my heart tense up into a ball of blood and what's the use. I can't bring myself to care about media when I'm too focused on trying to make something of myself. I don't have time.
I don't even know what I'm doing with myself. I make plans that don't follow through. I change my hair color.
And why do I like this man? A sincere question.
I never want to answer why I like anyone, not even to the person, because it's such a sentimental and private feeling that I think will become corrupted in speech.
The only way to resolve it would be in letter form.
I'm not so manic yet.