I was asleep in the library. I was dreaming again. I woke up. I don’t think I’ve ever felt as unhappy in my life as just now, coming to the groggy realization that I am in Chicago, in the library, alone and with papers to work on.
Suddenly I regret almost everything I’ve done since New Year’s Day, 1995. Or maybe since winter quarter, 1992. Or even since the summer of 1986. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be in Chicago. I regret applying to this school (or any schools), I regret the money I’ve spent here, the nights I’ve been alone here, the compromises I’ve made here, the people I’ve met here, the place that I live here, the things that I’ve done here.
I regret eBay and I regret FX and I regret MCP and I regret Caldera and I regret TMI and I regret About and I regret TMC and I regret the road trips and I regret the camera work and I regret the list of girlfriends and I regret the car and the computers and the cat and the bus stops and the shows and the metro library and the bottles of St. Provo Girl and the fish and the grey days in my apartment on the dumpster couch eating frozen vegan food and everything, everything, everything.
I hate this. I don’t know where I am or who I am or why I am here or how I got here. I want to go home but I haven’t been home in decades and there is no home anywhere to go to. Everyone I ever cared about is either dead or gone.
I fucked up. Somewhere along the way, I fucked up.
This is more serious than a couple of summers ago, when I didn’t talk to anyone for two months and spent every night on the corner of Harris Ave. under the street lamp listining to Mazzy Star, smoking pack after pack and drinking vodka. I don’t know what it means. Maybe I just need to wake up a little more. I’ll hope.
I regret having come to this place today. I regret having fallen asleep in the library.
Something has to give.