I have this compulsive disease where I write down what's going on my life and then save the scraps to later be examined by a largely confused, newer version of myself. Here are some diary entries from back when I was 20. I'd recently left home and was living in Austin on my own for the first time, writing freelance content articles for $15/each and trying to figure out why I was alive and what my place in the world was. I was also working on my first novel at the time, The Crooked God Machine. My take-away from these notes is that I had a very bitter, acerbic sense of humor in the face of my own misery, which is part of the reason why I'm so funny today.

If you can, I'd encourage you to keep a journal. It'll help you refine your goals and see how far you've come in achieving them. Mine has been going strong for about ten years, and although it's difficult to see how you're changing from day to day because change often occurs so slowly, it's easy to see how your life has changed. Even my language is different now - more precise and sparse than it used to be, less flailing around with my acidic humor and surreal imagery. But some things are still the same, and I can see even in those days when I loathed myself there were things worth liking about me.

But you may want to arrange someone to delete all the files upon your death. Or you know, share them on Steemit where they live forever.

The Anarchist Grocery List

[From the archives of @snowmachine's notes, circa May 2010]

A stupid grocery list I wrote because I couldn't sleep:
Eggs
Rice
More carrots
Bananarchy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!11111111
tofu
sriracha
creole seasoning/curry powder/something seasony-like
olive oil xxxxxtra virgin
asparagus
steal Christian Cheese from dad [Writer's note: My grandparents make cheese called "Christian Cheese" because, well, that's their last name.]
lentils
And then out of nowhere, a suicide bomber orangutan jumped through the window and rolled off the table clutching two grenades in his hands. He had a wild look in his eyes, man, you do not want to mess with that fucking orangutan. I dove out the window and fell sixty eight feet into a chasm below.

green beeeannns
oranges (for the orangutan)
egg noodles
Fuck. I left [name withheld] back in the apartment with the suicide bomber orangutan. God damn it.
honey (for the gigantic 8 foot bear that keeps lurking in the halls at night)
oatmeal
nail clippers
moar milk
tortillas
potatoes (sweet potatoes??!!oneone111)

Uhm, hmm. I don't know what else. Whatever [name withheld] wants. But if he buys Ritz crackers, he should take those accursed things with him to Ft. Worth, so I will not be lured by their siren song and drowned on the rocks of their salty cracker evil.

Things that [name withheld] likes:
Ritz Crackers
Cereal
Tortillas
Moar bread
Vagina
Pizza sauce!
Pizzas!! (pepperonis, mushroom mushroom badger badger badger)
Penis

Okay, here's what I propose, we take a timer into Wal-mart and then run through the aisles for a minute blindfolded randomly grabbing things. Whatever we get, that's our food for the week.

Now there are people fucking. And those people are not me. Woot.
Stupid things I should buy (or dumpster dive) eventually when I have money and things like that:
desks and chairs (or we can just sit at the kitchen table but I won't get cool tax deductibles, aww)
A blender (because they're awesome)
bicycles
printer (with a scanner)
hookah
a kettle because boiling tea is so intellectual
bread machine (moar bread, god damnit!)
A hippie van
flip flops
tie-dye so I can tie-dye my entire wardrobe
Bananarchy!!!
More things to get from the grocery store:
Milk
Carrots
Bananarchy!!!!!
A blender
Tofu
Curry powder
onions
egg noodles
rice
strawberries/blueberries/(frozen fruit of some sort)
milk
apples
oranges
black beans

Things That are Funny Because They're Tragic

[Dated May 13 2010]

The assassination of Martin Luther King
Child rapists
Hitler
Airplane crashes
Empty fortune cookies
Me turning down the first writing contract I've been offered in months.

If you look into the smoke with death on your brain you will see death in the smoke. I just finished watching "eyes without a face" and it has the most disturbing operation scene I've ever seen. It's about this doctor trying to restore his daughter's ruined face and he kidnaps girls and takes off their faces. I am insignificant but that's okay, because I can denounce everything I find uncomfortable while I'm sipping my chai green tea. If only I hadn't lost my glasses. I think continuing to work on my novel will sustain me - sort of like the waitress/actor or the forensic expert/serial killer. Except I am a hack writer/hack writer, and when I realize this my toes get all sad and blue. I stopped taking my anxiety medicine because it made me psychotic and I thought I was Lady Macbeth with the blood running down my hands and legs in neat little red slices. My boyfriend made a FAQ called "reasons why I love you" because I am so neurotic I forget every day. My roommate hates me because I hate her dog.

But hey, don't you worry, these things are funny because they are so tragic.

Eye in the Sky

[Dated Jan 2010]

Sometimes I forget that the only thing I can be is myself.

So I beat the edges of the table. So I say, "I'm going to be a stripper, and don't try to stop me," because I think maybe being naked in front of strangers would somehow cross the line between you (the universe) and me (this invisible, non-existent, nonentity. This stranger), but there are no strip clubs around here that have donkey shows, and those are my favorite, so I keep my clothes on.

I walk out of my house to the mountainside and roll in the dirt screaming. A crowd forms around me. It turns out the crowd wasn't really forming around me, but I happened to be in the way to witness one of God's prophet's ascensions into heaven. Elijah kicks me in the face on his way to the golden chariot. He flies off into the sun to the cheers of the crowd while in the background 36 twelve year old girls play squeaky violins and out of tune piccolos.

Yeah, get the fuck out of here, Elijah. vaya con demonios, filthy cabron.

See, a few months ago, I realized that all those short stories I was writing were actually all part of a larger, synthesized novel. It just clicked inside me, that I had been searching for the center, and I had just found it. "What was the Crooked God Machine?" I asked myself for months. I knew the answer mattered, but I couldn't quite scratch at it. I kept writing. Writing about Yahweh, about relationships between people, about worlds alienated by an inherent sociopathic mechanism. I kept writing about the corruption of theism, morality, and girls scarred with cigarette burns.

Now I have this idea for a novel, and I know this novel would be the most important thing I've written to date. I know if a much skilled writer than I could write this, it would be a social/philosophical/literature watershed. Unfortunately, I only have me, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to fail to explore all the implications of my idea, or write it to any sort of satisfaction. Despite that, I'm going to try, because it's the only thing I have left to do.

I was never good at anything but writing about the images in my head. There's nothing else that can sustain me. Not stripping, not writing web-copy, not the hard-scarred edge of hedonism. If only I could drag myself out of this depression and write.

I can't escape out of my isolation, because I cannot force anyone to give me a job and I cannot force anyone to accept me, so it's time to focus inward. It's time to remember how solitude caresses the back of my head and dive underneath the waters of my self imposed cage. I can't break the chain. Not right now. But I can scratch my words on these walls with my blood.

I'm not a hero. Heroes wouldn't crawl on the floor. Heroes wouldn't get stepped on by Elijah and not throw a rock at the bastard.

I think about this statement for a moment, chewing on my bottom lip. I walk back home with Elijah's footprint on my face, but at least I have the decency to not bow down to some cabron just because He says He's the lord of the universe and kills people at random to prove it.

Too many damned heroes in this world, anyways, I conclude. Not enough strippers.

You can find me on Twitter, Facebook, and my website. You can also buy one of my books here.

Other Posts You May Be Interested In:
The Last Living Part of You [Psycho-Surreal Memoirs]
Sunny Outside, Storm Inside [Writer's Journal]
The Writer Writes the Same Damn Thing [Psycho-Surreal Memoirs]
I Like Watching You Learn How to Be Alive [PTSD Series: Part 5]
The Importance of Narrative Design in Video Games
Carry The Glowing Seed, Plant Reality from the Dream [PTSD Series: Part 4]
Art Therapy at the Space Station [Psycho-Surreal Memoirs]