Originally Posted: 3/4/09
Claustrophobic tendencies are the norm. You become isolated and sabatoged and turn it all around, somehow. That's great. I applaud your perseverence and I'm happy for your victory, however small or hollow or full and large it may be. Still, part of me hopes that I don't have to be included. Part of me, a slightly diminished part these days, still clings like plastic wrap to the beleif that none of this happened. I'll open my eyes sometime soon and everything will be as I remembered it. I thank whatever gods may be listening sometimes that the dream scenario is just wishful thinking. Just in case you're wondering, this one is about you. Read on, maybe it will impart some degree of knowledge on you.
Sometimes, I'm an enigma. And sometimes, you're wrong about everything you say. These aren't cheap shots, honey, these are the facts. I'm not one to avoid things. Or people. Or situations. At least, most of the time. Every now and again it seems unhealthy and I step back. Right now, though, I'm feeling ten feet tall. There's really nothing like a challenge, and I dearly hope this one continues just a little longer. Then, like all the others, it will devolve into tears and the haunting, hysterical laughter that draws all the ladies to me like maggots to shit.
I'm not the best guy in the world. I know that may come as a shock to some of you, but it's the truth. I've got plenty of faults, a plethora of flaws, and more vices than you could shake a gangrenous cock at. But, hell, we've all got problems. Point is, I know who I am. I know what my capabilites are and where my shortcomings lie. Which makes me better. I'm not always honest, because I don't need to be, because part of human interaction is knowing when to forge ahead with the bitter truth and when to conceal it to keep everything running smoothly. I don't always behave morally, because I don't conform to anyone else's standards.
Don't confuse metaphors with reality. Dumb fuck.
It's funny how I keep your secrets and how, even now, I'm willing to stop the world from trashing you. Funny because it seems like you're not quite as willing. I don't really fault you for that, you're under no obligation, but at least get your shit right if you're going to talk it. I'm not in a playful mood, and I'm certainly not here simply to correct bad grammar. I'm not out looking for a fight either, but if one is coming my way then let's do it and get it done with. I've got better things to waste my time on. Habits that need tending and all that jazz.
Life appears to have taken a strange turn for the better, and yet the detractors still don't seem satisfied. If I'm being shit on, they applaud and if I'm being raised up they hiss like self-satisfied cunts. There's just no pleasing some people. Go ahead, make a sex joke out of that at my expense. Then titter with laughter like middleschoolers and relax in the comfort that you've just emasculated some asshole that's too cowardly to knock your fucking teeth in. But don't forget that you, for all your preaching and prattling, haven't seen a god damned thing. You haven't learned, and that saddens me. Maybe bonds are meant to be broken, and maybe we were fooling ourselves.
My letters (words, I think) are transparent. I've puzzled over that and, for some reason, I can't make sense of it. How can anything be transparent when it doesn't exist? See, my lies are transparent. They've always been that way, for the most part. That, I understand, but how my words, words I've never uttered to you or anyone else, are transparent defies me. If you haven't figured out already where the ire in these words comes from I'm willing to bet this part gives it away. For the sake of intelligence, though, let's clear this whole mess up right now, shall we?
Cliche insults are great. Really. There's a reason why they're so over-used. They're effective or, at least, mildly amusing. Calling a grown-ass man a boy, for instance, is a good route to go when you've run out of creative things to say. Next time, try taking shots at the size of my cock. Or, better yet, my family history. Imply that I'm a bastard or that I come from a family of unclean heretics that only came to this country because their sister-fucking, satan-worshipping ways weren't tolerated in the civilized societies of western Europe. That could be offensive. It won't be, but it has potential. The truth of the matter, though, is that you're angry about something and lashing out at me is a great way to blow off steam. You might even be angry at me. Why? Beats the hell out of me, but stranger things have happened. Why not be angry at a stranger who has no interest in your life or feelings? Why not be angry at a friend who, in every capacity, sought nothing more than to help? No reason, really.
Payment is forthcoming. I'm not making any phone calls. Conversation over. I'm really tired of redundant topics, and even more weary of repeating myself. Sit back for a second, let it sink in, and let's move on with being big boys and girls.
I know, I know, you've probably already got some scathing remarks, comebacks, whatever. If not, you've probably grown bored with this pointless tirade and stopped reading. If neither of those options fit you, then by all means keep going. If you're angry, calm down. I know too, that you hate being told that. I don't care. See, the entire point of this is to manipulate you. I figure one of two things will happen (and I, of course, have taken into account that you won't comply just to spite me, but I dearly hope you won't ruin my fun just yet). The first is that you'll compile those angry thoughts into some kind of response. I'm sure you'll include things about the immaturity of posting this kind of garbage so anyone can read it and so on and so forth. I'll read it thoughtfully and we'll get a dialogue going that helps everyone. OR you'll realize my ploy, read through the things I've scribbled down in anger and see the real point in all of this. Then we'll converse about that instead and everything will be hunkey dorey.
If you spoil my good time, though, I'll be very upset. I might even sulk for, like, ten minutes. Then something else will catch my attention and, eventually, I'll forget this ever happened. I'm really quite adaptable.
Attero! Dominatus! Berlin is burning.
They say that people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but I think it should be people with assholes shouldn't point fingers. That's just something that was floating around in my head. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the rest of this.
I'm tired. That weariness that settles into your bones and just leaves you dragging yourself about like a cripple, desperately hoping to find some way to rest. I'm not sure when it started, or when it will end, but it certainly seems to be persisting well enough. It has nothing to do with you, but this ridiculous nonsense doesn't really serve any purpose but to thwart my efforts at rejuvination. That's my presumption anyhow. Wear me down until I fold, n'est-ce pas? Fuck it. I wish you luck in your endeavors. However unkind.
I think I'm going to bed.
That gargoyle? Totally giving you the "fuck me" eyes.
Slovenly Yours,
S.R.
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