you can call me pavlov's dog

Today I met my parents for dinner at a place called the Brew Pub on the corner of Main Street and Transit Road in Buffalo. More accurately, Williamsville, and as I'm learning this is a very important clarification. I was in a very bad mood as I had just driven an hour and a half after an hour therapy session from Rochester to visit an apartment. I didn't even get out of my car once I got to the apartment because I "didn't like the looks of it," and then managed to somehow feel as though I'd been gipped for having driven so far for "nothing." Believe it or not this is one of the milder examples of my compulsion, and I have certainly driven a lot farther for a lot longer just to turn around and go back where I came from. It is something I don't understand about myself.

Regardless, when I pulled up to the restaurant, my Father asked me how my day went, and I told him it was long, and tiring. He said, you know, when people ask you how your day went, they don't actually want to know. I wanted to say, if you understood the reasons behind and the weight of what you just said you would understand me entirely. Instead I told him I'd try and give a better answer next time, to which my Mom looked disgusted, and said, "He doesn't mean with family."

I'm reading "The Stranger" by Albert Camus. I sleep with it next to me, and if I could wrap my arms around it, or beg it to nurse and cradle me, I would. That is all there is to say about that.

When I was in rehab I started to cry about anarchy in a group therapy session. A man who is exactly like me in every way except for his upholding morality spoke to me as if I was a child who has been hanging around with the wrong crowd. "Is this Nietzche? Is that where you're getting all this?" I always want to say, I've never read Neitzche, I've always believed this, but I hear he says the same things, but I'm pretty confident no one would believe me.

I've realized that rehab is another one of those experiences that I don't like talking about because I feel like I can't do it justice. Grandits keeps asking me to tell stories but ever since I stopped being a decent writer, I feel like me verbalizing anything is doing it a great disservice.

I've been wanting to make Emily a mix for weeks. I don't have any blank CD's. There are a lot of other things I've been meaning to do, like contact Chriss and Seth, and call my friends in rehab, who probably could really use to hear from me, and go to AA every once and a while, and see Bonny and a few others, there are so many other things. I remember a scene in Igby Goes Down where the oldest son realizes that his father has done nothing for years but stack cigarettes for hours on end in the desk drawer. I pray to god no one is watching me.

I would go back to Rochester, and hope someone or anyone there would be someone or anyone I could talk to. My grandpa always said, "Fool me once, fuck you."

I had very significant dreams for myself-