Mario Villalobos


I wasted this weekend, and I almost didn’t want to write tonight. I didn’t care if I broke my promise or all the many streaks I’ve kept active these past two hundred and twenty-four days. None of me cared. The only thing making me write tonight is habit. I have no idea what this entry is going to be about, and I don’t even know if it’ll be worth reading once I’m done. I wanted to sleep in this morning, but I didn’t because I forced myself to get up because I wanted today to be a good day. I sluggishly went through my morning routine, and once I meditated — which is the last activity in my routine — I began to watch TV and my day went down hill from there. I spent most of the day in bed being unproductive, and I really hate myself for it.

I could’ve been productive today but I wasn’t. I didn’t even care about my todo list today. The only reason I checked stuff off was seriously out of habit. There was no friction in doing them because I’ve been doing them for so long that it’s all just automatic. That’s for the best because I was too unfocused to use my mind at all today.

I’ve been sad all day, and I haven’t been able to pinpoint why yet. Part of me is lonely, and I definitely need more friends and/or a girlfriend, but I don’t think it was that. These fucking beautiful days have brought back some painful memories of days gone by, but I don’t think it was that either. I think it was the fact that I stayed indoors during another beautiful day, like my soul wanted to feel the sun’s rays against my skin because it knew it would make me feel better. I didn’t, though, and I don’t know why. I didn’t even think about it until I started writing my journals today. It made sense to me.

I was thinking of transferring my Squarespace blog to a WordPress one, but I don’t know yet. I don’t know if I want to keep blogging after this project is over. I know I’ve said I do, but my moods change and now I don’t feel like it. I’ll keep journaling, of course, but privately. I don’t know if I like all this openness anymore. Who knows how I’ll feel tomorrow or in a week. I don’t. I stopped trying.

I’m rushing through this now because I just want to reach my word count. I feel like my old self, where a bottle of wine and some fast food was my nightly routine. That and sending texts I knew were going to remain unanswered to someone I no longer give a shit about. I hate when I’m like this, and I don’t want to dwell here for too long for fear of reverting back to him. All I know is that I want to go to sleep and wake up tomorrow ready to go to work.