chemically fulfilled monkey machine, or something

I love facebook. I hate facebook. I love facebook.

I found this on my computer while looking for something else. Apparently I wrote it a year ago, I don't remember:

My thoughts are trains that run through my head

None of them seem to stop at a station

For long enough to make any sense

And the chaos builds and folds

But it’s not enough to justify

Staying in bed until I’m good and ready

The machine marches on ahead

And I take little pills to make this monkey work

And isn’t that perfection?

My brain mass, your chemical reaction

Am I now perfection?

Smoothed over edges of my mis-creation

We’re all out of this factory life

Little clone men caught in the headlights

And I just don’t know how to be

Anymore like you need

You shine like the sun underground

Your normal precision so easily defined

Seems like the rest of our species know to survive

It takes all of my strength just to get by

How do you reach your perfection?

My brain mass, your chemical reaction

Does this substance induce perfection?

Smoothed over edges of my mis-creation.

Scooter Libby is a bastard and I'm glad he's gone down

It's been a tough run, these past few weeks.

While I am getting used to the pelvis that keeps dislocating itself, the twice weekly physio, the constant back pain and posture requirements, the sacroiliac belt that supports my spine and holds my pelvis in place while squeezing me so that any and all fat or tissue oozes over the top creating a muffin effect. Yeah, all that shit, I'm getting used to it.

What I'm not getting used to is the constant requirements for improvement, from friends, family, spouse, work.
What I'm not getting used to is the dissonance between my credentials and my personality. Between where I want to be and where I am.

I realised yesterday that I live like I'm in a novel. Like it ends in 6 months or 100 pages. Like it doesn't go on and on, and you have to account for that and plan for that. Fuck planning for it, I can't even acknowledge it. What do you mean it keeps going? Life is not a computer game. There is no predetermined final credit sequence once you pass the level. These are all concepts I am struggling with. Which maybe seems like something I should have dealt with when I was 7.