Something is ending.

Here I am, sitting in my old room. Beginning on Monday, I realized that technically, I'm homeless. That doesn't mean I don't have anywhere to stay -- on the contrary, there are many welcoming beds and my belongings are mostly accounted for. There will be no longer be a place that's considered mine. The room I'm in right now holds a strange feeling. It's the place I slept most nights in the past year, the place where I spent the majority of my time, but it's not home anymore. Everything is different -- even the direction I am facing as I type. As minor as that seems, my position quite literally adjusts my view of the whole area.

Is it silly to forfeit all responsibility for feeling differently about the room?

It's not just here -- everything is changing. Yesterday in Sacramento, I drove past a house only a few turns away from my parents'. It is the place to which I used to sneak out the windows of my house, around an extra block so as not to be spotted by my neighbor. He was usually staring out the front window, and there is no way he wouldn't have told my parents. This is the house in which I had my first experience in tame promiscuity. Where it all began. When I passed my driver's license test, I started driving a different route home to see if I could spot the person who lived in that house.

As I drove by yesterday, silently reminiscing, I saw the person who lives there standing on the porch. This is the person I was hoping to see aged 16, as I drove my Buick past the house. Instead of a good-looking, well dressed 18-year-old boy, however, there was a 60+ woman in a nightshirt, pointing a running hose in no particular direction. Instead of a run down white Buick, which would later fall victim to various thefts and break-ins, I was driving a shuddering, overheating truck. Neither the person in the house nor I are the same people anymore, but there's still a part of me that glances toward the front door, hoping to make eye-contact with someone in particular, no matter how forcefully I try to focus my eyes forward.

For some reason, I find this incredibly sad. Why can't my brain just fucking release me?

Looking at Joseph Cornell's art makes me teary-eyed. Of course, what doesn't these days?

It's just so fucking gentle.

The truth will come out eventually.

How long can I keep everyone believing I'm sane?

Can I really hide it for much longer?

Try until the end try until the end try until the end.

Two new hobbies

1) Meticulously combing every millimeter of my meal for traces of meat.
2) Looking for Kosher symbols on food packaging.

For the first time

I am having problems I can't talk to anyone about.

Usually, not talking about my problems is my preferred manner of recovery. It's hard for me, however, to know that I actually can't speak to anyone.

Flosstradamus

Ayumi saw these DJs at Download Festival. We've been listening to them all morning, and they do some great mashups -- in particular, the one of Kanye West and Sigur Ros.

www.myspace.com/flosstradamus

Sacramento, CA

I am shifting cities quite frequently.

Last night, I talked Ayumi into leaving her new apartment in San Francisco and meeting me here. It was going to be the first time each of us had slept alone in a long time. I picked her up at the train station last night at 10pm, and we hung around, talking to my parents and growing progressively more tired. Once in bed, we shared one of those giggly sleepover-type conversations that I miss so much. Sacramento's getting so lonely, I have to import my friends.

Usually -- according to what I've heard -- when someone gets ready to leave the country for an extended period of time, their lives fall into place in a very inconvenient way. Fortunately, mine is not. I'm developing awkward crushes, basically, and can't wait to ditch them. It's probably just an effort to feign attachment.