i honestly don't know

There's something bordering on romantic about these doorhandles.
Anyway.

I wonder why no one behaves like a movie. I know my mum has a strange fixation with attempting to make her life more cinema-like, and in some ways she's succeeded-- she reminds me more and more of something out of Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? (hardly the intention, but there it is all the same) rather than some quaint English picture with plenty of sofas and curtains wafting in the breeze and who knows what.
There's something about affairs with older men that seem glamorous and enlightening, but truth be told they lead you to suicide. Every affair I've had with an older man (substantially older, that is) has led to nothing but cigarettes and good food, no tears but plenty of emptiness. Naturally, it seems that one should be able to learn all there is to learn of themselves and the life outside from an affair with an older man, but it's hardly the case in my experience. Lying in those beds with my legs spread apart and pretending to breathe when the term "drowning" would more appropriately apply has shown me nothing more than my own dwindling self esteem and lack of sanity.
This whole "trying to quit smoking" thing is going to be the death of me. I've half a heart to give up giving up entirely.
It would be so easy, you know, to end it here. An old life snipped out of existence-- my hellish apartment gone, my old job gone, people not even bothering to say goodbye-- and this one not even started. A complete transitional phase, it seems my life consists entirely of transitional phases, I am literally no one this day and this day tomorrow and this day the day after that. I was literally no one yesterday, and I was partially someone the day before but only because I spoke with my mother and she seems convinced that I'm doomed to a beatnik life in a beatnik neighborhood (and I haven't the heart to tell her it's completely true) and I'm having a terrible time fighting off these panic attacks induced by the fact I've no idea what the bloody hell I'm doing here. I mean, I know how I got here-- a boy said he loved me and got a job in another state and asked to whisk me away from the hell life I was leading-- but really, what on earth am I doing here? I keep making plans for next week but dear whoever-resides-upstairs what the hell is going to become of me? I feel like no matter what I do it is damn near impossible to get my life on track. I don't know if it's the beatings I took as a child or if I'm simply defective or if my higher self is whispering evil things in my ears but I feel like I'm not cut out for this world, this society, this life.
It would be so easy...
but I shouldn't talk of things that won't happen.
Which makes me wonder how men can walk around with erections and not burst out laughing.
Anyway.
I know I've lost myself but I find small shards here and there, but they aren't pretty. They're ugly things but I'm so glad to see them, and yet I hate them because I know they'll go away.
Maybe I should paint my nails red and take up smoking again and start drinking.
What the fuck happened to good music and dancing? Why is there practically no place on planet earth where you hear the Kinks or Juliette Greco and dance? Jesus, there's no occasion to wear silk dresses anymore. Makes you wonder what happened to all those evening gloves nobody's wearing.