to not give into temptation when the pain from failure arises

Its real frustrating when all I really want to do is move back to Florida right now because I miss the sandy beaches. 

Everyone treats me like I’m some dike here. Even the transgenders.  

The only thing I like about New York is how I do not need a car. 

I’m stuck. 

If I leave to Florida, I could be extradited back here to serve a bench warrant and even if I wasn’t fighting a case here in New York, I’m willing to bet I’d make my way back into TGK or Metro West for sleeping in public or something. 

So I’m guessing New York is where I will stay. 

People are really volatile, though. I feel like an abused mistress constantly getting fucked by the streets. 

That’s why I served the audience up with a bunch of street hacks to live off of food stamps..so I could help people learn how I keep my cool. 

Just stuffing the hole in my face with ice cream till I feel better. 

It’s really the only way to staying out of jail and institutions. 

I haven’t had much luck out here in New York, though, given that I’m overqualified for any job paying minimum wage. 

I could alternate into selling drugs, my ass, or panhandle my way out of the streets but that would be too easy. 

I’m looking for a high ticket item. 

I’m looking to relate to the masses in a real way. 

But what else do I do? 

My job applications continue being turned away. 

I can’t say it’s my first time applying for work, can I? 

My work experience can’t explain the gaps in where I was incarcerated, and I’m feeling super fucking discouraged.  

Fuck this shit. 

I’m loving the fact I am allowed to sit on a curb anywhere in the city. I’m not even tempted to sleep out on the streets because I know I will get robbed. Yesterday, I nearly get pickpocketed on the train. Luckily, I’m not a heroin addict because I would’ve woken up without my belongings. It’s the last thing I need and everything I deserve after the way I’ve been treating my mother. 

I hope I don’t go to hell. 

The sense of desperation overtaking my soul is a symptom of dying from the streets of New York. I’m slowly dying inside from loneliness, despair, and from walking. 

I am nowhere near as tough as a New Yorker but that doesn’t mean I am not willing to try. Yesterday I spent the entire day walking, overcompensating for my shortcomings. My knees are not thanking me. 

At least I am prepared for these walks. I reckon I’ve spent plenty of time walking on the sand.  

Still, though, it’s a totally different ball game here. 

I’m never going to survive being this size of a fish within whatever sized pond this is. 

This city is so densely packed. Feels like I’m crowded into a pack of sardines whenever I’m on a subway. If I tell someone excuse me, they didn’t hear me, they’re wearing their Turtle Beaches. 

Fuck me. 

I’m such a piece of shit, the only person I could depend on is my mom. If I would’ve taken a different path, I probably wouldn’t be homeless, broke, and applying for disability. 

That’s all I did today. I have no other choice than to embrace the mental state I’m suffering from because I’m taking a look back at some of my choices last year and it’s clear I’m here for a valid reason. 

If Florida wasn’t going to pay for my medication, someone else had to. It’s for my own good because I don’t want to go back to jail. 

I’m doing a heck of a lot better but I know there’s always room for improvement. There’s really no point to this post other than to check in with myself. 

There’s a certain mindset I’m learning to adapt to: to not give in to temptation when the pain from failure arises. 

There have been days where I’ve wanted to drink. It won’t do anything for me. 

I could smoke all the weed in the world. I’d rather be awake. 

Coffee is the only thing I want nowadays! Coffee! 

Of all things. 

Coffee is a luxury item in jail, it’s something I learned to appreciate. There’s nothing better than someone who could brew up a good cup of coffee for your boy and I’m damn near burning a hole through my pocket trying to get some.  Maybe I ought to become a barista or something.  I don’t fucking know. 

Lord knows what’s going to happen. 

People seem to be fed up with me as much as I’m fed up with myself. 

It’s just insane to think getting a job is going to solve my problems— would it? 

I don’t think so.  

I only recognize the motivation I have not to fail. It’s just real tricky being in New York knowing how volatile people are here, man. This is fucking bullshit.  

I have the case of the Mondays.