Look What I Made

Originally Posted: 6/24/09

I just want to be piss drunk and pissed off. I'm sick of being sick and tired of being tired. Just tell me that you give a shit and we can move on. All anyone really wants is a little bit of comfort, a little bit of common courtesy, and someone who adores them. That's it. That is the be-all end-all. Someone who adores you. Not a good job making good money, not fancy cars, not success, not wealth, not a huge, loving family. Not a god damn bit of it matters. Happiness isn't drinking, drugs, ciggarettes, laughter, friends, memories, songs, poems, novels, crowds of people watching you, or mind-blowing sex. Happiness is having someone around that comforts you when you're upset, rubs your back when you're hurting, curls up with you and brings you soup when you're sick and, all the while, has this look in their eyes that makes you feel like something more than a pitiful mess of flesh and bone and insecurities. That's happiness, and I'm a miserable fuck.

I want to slap the shit out of every baby I see. I want to kick puppies. I want to rant and rage until I make Bruce Banner's alter ego look like a bitch. I want to smash things and burn things and trash it all until what used to be my life is just shambles and shards of glass and mortar. Blow it all apart and blow this town. I want out. I want away. Up, up, over the hills. Second star to the right. Fuck the moon, I'm shooting for Alpha Centauri.

I want someone that wants me. Fuck all this doting on people that couldn't give a shit. Spending time and energy on people who can't be bothered to return a phone call or go slightly out of their way for me? Done-zo. I'm finished. Here's the towel. I'm tossing it in, and if you think that's a weak way to be than you can come suck the snot off the tip of my dick. Swallow it, cunt, or I'm breaking your jaw.

You know the worst part of it? I don't even know that I want it. I'm circling the drain, here. I'm just whipping around and around in my head. One minute I want to go back to school and the next I just want to eat a bullet. Then I'm fretting over money. Then I just want a drink. Then I want a woman. Then I want to jerk off. Then I curl up around my pillow and wish that I could sleep. Then, then, fuck, then what? Then I realize that you're all just scum and I hate you.

Then I'm dead without you.

Do you see the problem with this? There is no scenario where anything resembling happiness festers. No overflowing pool of giddiness. That's when I start getting existential. I turn into Freud. Or I turn into Castro. Or something. Something blue, bloated and lifeless, thank the merciful gods. A little rest, a little respite. A little brain matter splattered on the wall behind you. Boomshakka, cock back, boomshakka, fuck you. The problem with being a sociopath is that people always think you're crazy.

My eyes are the size of baseballs in my head and my lip is swollen from chewing it. My chest hurts and I can't breathe. I'm tired and sweating and I can't cool off. Can't sleep. Can't eat. Can't find a moment's fucking peace. I can't seem to focus enough to write for more than an hour. Holy shit, I think I'm in love but I can't figure out who the father is, or why I should care in the first place. Maybe Maury knows. Otherwise, this little heartsick monstrosity is just one more dumpster baby. I'm not capable of raising it, Lawdy-garsh no! Toss it in the trash can and head off to the prom.

What the fuck am I talking about?

A better question: who the fuck are you to question me? I didn't ask you to read this, you worm. You fickle fucking parasite. I didn't ask you to peel my skull back and poke around in my brain. You've done this of your own volition. Now, maybe, you can see the error of your ways. Do you really want to know what goes on down here? Down in the Gray, in the Black, in the Mauve? No one ever does, but you cocksuckers keep coming and I keep fending you off with clips and glimpses of things you never should have laid eyes on. Two weeks later someone finds you swinging from the ceiling or sucking on a tailpipe or splashed across the living room wall with a shotgun resting on your balls. No one blames me. I'm just misunderstood. Words are nothing more than letters randomly arranged to form a meaning in your head and I mean to destroy you.

Guilty. Guilty. Filthy little soul. Talking to the dead like they can hear you. The dead don't walk, the dead don't walk. I've told you again and again, they don't fucking walk. They do not walk. DO NOT FUCKING WALK.

It could be swine flu, actually.

I don't feel well, I'm very stressed out, and I sorely miss having someone to live for. Living for yourself is great but, let's face it, I'm kind of a dick. I hate living for me. Other people are so much cooler and more interesting. That's a synopsis, in a manner of speaking. Here's another: Turn around. Gotcha. I'm not behind you. I'm in your computer, driving you mad. Tonight, while you're sleeping, I'll download every R.E.M. album onto your harddrive, delete your other files, and play "Losing My Religion" on loop for the next twelve days. Constantly. Even after you've turned off the computer and murdered your loved ones. I won't stop until everything burns. That's me in the corner. It's begun.

My presence here is just a nuisance. I only want to fly away. Maybe I'll survive today.

I got a hand for you.

Cause I wanna run with you.

I wanna love you the best that, the best that I can.

Irrevocably your problem,
-S.R.