hildeguardog's Diaryland Diary

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Torture Doctor

I think I have a bad frame of reference.

Conspiracy theorists say they want off the grid, and I totally get that.

Nothing about the life I am living seems normal. I sleep in a 325-square-foot apartment. I work for money, which I use to pay for food and for my part of the apartment. When I run, my start point is the same as my end point. When I lift weights, they are of uniform weight and dimensions. I sleep and wake at specific times. My job requires no strength or mental acuity, my class (which I will soon drop, obviously) is taught in an intellectual bubble. The "nature" I enjoy has been purposefully sectioned off, more or less as land with less economic viability than the land surrounding it. Rain or shine, drought or flood, me and three million other people will insist on living in our respective, 325-square-foot plots in Chicago Proper (mine happens to be suspended twelve stories in the air).

Nothing I do is in celebration of my living circumstances. Every beer I drink and story I read and cigarette I smoke and movie I watch and record I listen to is all an attempt to make a brief escape from the uselessness I feel living like this. I exercise because I "should," though there are plenty of people who don't because, y'know, who gives a fuck? Longevity used to be a goal, and now it seems happenstance. I might feel useless now, but if I live long enough, I will be physically and mentally useless is every way imaginable, and yet it would be unconscionable to allow me, as a ninety-year-old, to die.

Because I'm broke, I was thinking of camping this weekend. I have gas in the car and a tent and I could salvage some wood. And then I realized I wouldn't be able to afford it. Because camping on land designated for camping is $23. With the exception of the Lawrence underpass, I would have to pay more per night to camp than to have an apartment.

Pizza's ready. Conspiracy rant is over. Time to watch Batman.

8:02 p.m. - Thursday, Oct. 27, 2016

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