My 99th Post Is Just Filler

I had a pretty good Easter. I had a pretty good week thereafter, though Diantha was sick four days in a row, which made me very nervous. I had a pretty good field trip in a rented bus to the Springville High School Art Show. I had a pretty good night with The Boyfriend, and I had a pretty good show Thursday night. I had a pretty good night at poetry even, where a man told me that he came to the cafe just to see me read.

But I've been having poor, poor moods.

I got depressed at the museum. It wasn't because I felt inadequate compared to the other high school artists, it was because nobody else seemed to care. Nobody seemed to care about the effort, and nobody else stood looking at the paintings of Soviet Russia. Was it just me? Does nobody my age feel compelled by the minute, minute detail and curve of each face? You could see the paint laid thick on the canvas. But everyone else made jokes, and I don't know why it depressed me, other than perhaps I felt alone.

I'd walked around the basement, the main level, and the permanent collection, I had nothing else to look at. I had nowhere else to sit but this beautiful atrium (it reminded me of the San Diego Zoo, for some reason) which was filled with students from other high schools. Then, I took out my journal and started writing in it. Like I used to.

I've just felt down lately. I feel like I did a long time ago, but worse. It feels as though I'm either going sane or insane, and everyone else is on the opposite pole, turned away. I feel like I am seeing things clearly now. Too clearly. It's like I can see through reality in increments that shock my spine, and I'm regaining a grip on something separate. I can't find anything real anymore.

If it weren't bad enough, I'm becoming snappish at The Boyfriend, when he's upset. Not snappish. But in my brain, the synapses are tired. They're tired of seeing him upset at me for something he refuses to admit to me. And I'm tired of him over-sensitizing little offhand comments. I said I would fuck Kanye West. I didn't mean that I would fuck Kanye West, that's ridiculous. But it got to him anyway. Sometimes I think he may be the girl in this relationship. Am I just being the dumb jock boyfriend?

So it's depressing me. Everything is depressing me, and it doesn't help that I felt airport-compelled to read again the Catcher in the Rye. I read it last on my trip to Omaha, last summer or the summer before. I don't know how to feel anymore.

Am I finally feeling the way I should?

Because this still doesn't feel right.