Originally Posted: 2/18/06
You make yourself look like a fool, and your disrespect is mortifying. The language that endlessly worms its way from your throat and into the world, the foul, deplorable slang you interpret as modern poetry, is less artistic than photographing a 92 year old man sodomizing your ten year old brother. The repetitive, zombifyingly mind-numbing music you listen to is more a sad attempt at cashing in on a sound, a genre that was dead before it began. You disguise yourself in hard talk, mask your fear with smiles and your homosexuality with talk of conquests and riddicule. You're a coward, a nothing, a futurless, insignificant wretch with more piss in your pants than a newborn. Yet you have the gall to wave the word 'bitch' around like its some kind of weapon, something that will give you power over somebody else because you label them with a derogatory name? Mother fucker, sit back. We're going for a ride.
You have spent your entire life afraid of people who look like me, who talk in speech you don't comprehend, to look at you with pity for reasons you don't understand. Some of them you've ridiculed, some of them you may have even had the nerve to physically lay your hands on. No, I don't mean "freaks". Those have become commonplace these days, a thought that is nauseating in its own right, I mean people who just have a little something...different about them. People who would, on a given day, rend your flesh and eat your insides for shits and giggles. Yeah, people like that. Most of them, I'm fairly sure you have never once looked at face to face, because you are, as previously stated, nothing more than a coward. Well, I'm here now and we can be face to face. Say something sharp and no-doubt mind blowing. Nothing, huh? Yeah, I thought you might have a response something along those lines.
My qualm with you is not a result of something directly aimed at myself. Nothing you did to offend me intentionally, but something offensive nonetheless. I am not easily offended, to say the least, yet you managed it, so now I will explain the rules in a manner you can understand. Firstly, hold your tongue or it will be removed. You could always go to class every so often and perhaps learn to read and write and then, maybe, you'd be fit to speak. Until then, eat your words. Secondly, you will never, and allow me to repeat, never, refer to any woman (be it my fourteen year old sister, or your eighty year old grandmother) as a "fine ass bitch". Commit that atrocity again and you will have a good reason for fear. Lastly, respect other people and their families. They will repay the favor. Fail to do so, and you will suffer.
The rules concluded, and my temper somewhat calmed I leave you with this: Try a style outside of 3X clothes that make you resemble something of a cross between a jackass and an acid head priest, learn a few words longer than four letters and lastly, come out of the closet. You aren't fooling anyone.
Roll that in a blunt and smoke it. Bitch.
God As Himself
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Smoke 'Em If You Got 'Em
Originally Posted: 2/6/06
Angels...
Raped and Ruined....
Seraphims...
Seduced and Spitted
Queens...
Loved and Gutted
You...
Next in Line
Welcome to my mind, a place where hope has abandoned and light is forsaken. For the next few paragraphs you will endure this place because you, being the human you are, can not help but delve into the things you fear most about the world around you. Those things, all of which live inside you, are your nightmares and little by little, I can make them come true.
Parents. Wonderful topic to discuss tonight and what wonderful people they are correct? Good. We're avoiding them. Rather, we're going to talk about friends. Ever have a good friend? Ever have a best friend? Ever have a bff? Well, if the last one is true do me a favor and cut out your genitals because you won't be needing them. If you're stupid enough to think something as fragile as friendship can last forever, then you deserve to reproduce about as much as I do. Sadly, this time around I am guilty of the very thing I am about to tell you how much I despise. I suppose maybe its that last part of my childhood starting to die off before I enter the bleak, utterly hopeless adult world. What a fucking prospect that is to look forward to.
Friends are something words can't actually be put to, despite how ignorant people attempt time and again. Its not possible, because relationships like that have no need for words. Therefore, they surpass them. I don't currently have a best friend, although I have gone through several. Hell, right now I'm lucky to find a friend when I need one to tell the truth. Now, before I elaborate on why this is, allow me to tell you why I chose this topic. A very dear friend called me the other night, last week now I suppose and it felt so good to hear this friend's voice that I could not think of anything much to say beyond how tired I was. The conversation quickly ended with her promise to call me the next day and my vow to get some sleep. The moment I heard the click I realized two things: 1.) By "I'll call you tomorrow" she meant "You fucker, why don't you ever call me?" and 2.) There were a million better things I could have and should have said to her not just then, but over the course of several years. In short, the reason that relationship is in shambles (not due to any fights but rather a lack of communication and time invested) is solely, my fault. Sad. Terrible. True.
I have few friends. It isn't due to my demeanor, my personality, or any of those things about me that sicken normal people. Its because I care too little or I don't show that I care enough. I lose contact with people and when the inevitable conflict over this occurs, I fall back into the asshole persona that I so lovingly crafted, and tell them to fuck off, or ignore them, or something else even more foolish than my normal behavior. I hurt people heedlessly, needlessly because I am too fucking arrogant to bother with myself. For that, I express sorrow but I wonder how often I mean it. Its not that I'm insincere. I can be sincere about mostly anything (especially how vehemently I abhor utter stupidity including my own). Its that I'm distant and I have trouble identifying or caring about anyone who has not become extraordinarily close to me. The three of them that there are. Outside of them, I have a more or less "How sad for you, when are you going to blow me?" attitude. Sad. Horrible. True.
In closing, my rant tonight has been less severe than normal and for the first time in a long time, it had an easily discernable point to it. I promise more of my usual nonsensical drivel next time.
To my friend, who shall ever remain nameless, I am truly sorry for all the dumb things I have said or failed to say or done. Especially when I try to say something that should have been silly, or cute and it comes off as a pathetic attempt at something entirely different. Gotta work on my people skills...but I do love you dearly. That's a start at least...
Evermore.
-Scar Rider
Angels...
Raped and Ruined....
Seraphims...
Seduced and Spitted
Queens...
Loved and Gutted
You...
Next in Line
Welcome to my mind, a place where hope has abandoned and light is forsaken. For the next few paragraphs you will endure this place because you, being the human you are, can not help but delve into the things you fear most about the world around you. Those things, all of which live inside you, are your nightmares and little by little, I can make them come true.
Parents. Wonderful topic to discuss tonight and what wonderful people they are correct? Good. We're avoiding them. Rather, we're going to talk about friends. Ever have a good friend? Ever have a best friend? Ever have a bff? Well, if the last one is true do me a favor and cut out your genitals because you won't be needing them. If you're stupid enough to think something as fragile as friendship can last forever, then you deserve to reproduce about as much as I do. Sadly, this time around I am guilty of the very thing I am about to tell you how much I despise. I suppose maybe its that last part of my childhood starting to die off before I enter the bleak, utterly hopeless adult world. What a fucking prospect that is to look forward to.
Friends are something words can't actually be put to, despite how ignorant people attempt time and again. Its not possible, because relationships like that have no need for words. Therefore, they surpass them. I don't currently have a best friend, although I have gone through several. Hell, right now I'm lucky to find a friend when I need one to tell the truth. Now, before I elaborate on why this is, allow me to tell you why I chose this topic. A very dear friend called me the other night, last week now I suppose and it felt so good to hear this friend's voice that I could not think of anything much to say beyond how tired I was. The conversation quickly ended with her promise to call me the next day and my vow to get some sleep. The moment I heard the click I realized two things: 1.) By "I'll call you tomorrow" she meant "You fucker, why don't you ever call me?" and 2.) There were a million better things I could have and should have said to her not just then, but over the course of several years. In short, the reason that relationship is in shambles (not due to any fights but rather a lack of communication and time invested) is solely, my fault. Sad. Terrible. True.
I have few friends. It isn't due to my demeanor, my personality, or any of those things about me that sicken normal people. Its because I care too little or I don't show that I care enough. I lose contact with people and when the inevitable conflict over this occurs, I fall back into the asshole persona that I so lovingly crafted, and tell them to fuck off, or ignore them, or something else even more foolish than my normal behavior. I hurt people heedlessly, needlessly because I am too fucking arrogant to bother with myself. For that, I express sorrow but I wonder how often I mean it. Its not that I'm insincere. I can be sincere about mostly anything (especially how vehemently I abhor utter stupidity including my own). Its that I'm distant and I have trouble identifying or caring about anyone who has not become extraordinarily close to me. The three of them that there are. Outside of them, I have a more or less "How sad for you, when are you going to blow me?" attitude. Sad. Horrible. True.
In closing, my rant tonight has been less severe than normal and for the first time in a long time, it had an easily discernable point to it. I promise more of my usual nonsensical drivel next time.
To my friend, who shall ever remain nameless, I am truly sorry for all the dumb things I have said or failed to say or done. Especially when I try to say something that should have been silly, or cute and it comes off as a pathetic attempt at something entirely different. Gotta work on my people skills...but I do love you dearly. That's a start at least...
Evermore.
-Scar Rider
God is Dead...and No One Cares
Originally Posted: 7/20/2005
Hell is the maimed and tortured face of a young girl as she lies whimpering and half conscious beneath you. The face that haunts your dreams nightly because you loved her. You loved her and she hurt you and that bitch got what she deserved.
Hell is the cries of abandoned children. Small and alone in a poverty stricken neighborhood, locked in their bedrooms, afraid to venture without and incur the wrath of their bastard fathers, afraid to know that mommy isn't home. Its much easier to sit alone and pretend someone loves you.
Hell is the souls of young people in this world who have lost their innocence. People who met reality far before their time. People who missed laughing and lounging in the sun and traded in their Power Ranger feetie pajamas for rubber gloves and responsiblities. People who gave all to ensure siblings grew up right an wanted only to be kids in return.
Hell is in everyone who has suffered injustice at the hands of life because Hell is the burden we carry. Hell is the vengeful tears of children, the spiteful tongues of intellectals, and the utter loss of will in humankind. Hell is right beside you every moment and it isn't satisfied.
So go, live your life in this pile of refuse that exists as an excuse for a world and know that "God is Dead...And No One Cares". Hell is here. And I see your face every day. Fuck it. This place is disgusting and so are the pitiful monsters that inhabit it. I need to get out.
-S.R.
Hell is the maimed and tortured face of a young girl as she lies whimpering and half conscious beneath you. The face that haunts your dreams nightly because you loved her. You loved her and she hurt you and that bitch got what she deserved.
Hell is the cries of abandoned children. Small and alone in a poverty stricken neighborhood, locked in their bedrooms, afraid to venture without and incur the wrath of their bastard fathers, afraid to know that mommy isn't home. Its much easier to sit alone and pretend someone loves you.
Hell is the souls of young people in this world who have lost their innocence. People who met reality far before their time. People who missed laughing and lounging in the sun and traded in their Power Ranger feetie pajamas for rubber gloves and responsiblities. People who gave all to ensure siblings grew up right an wanted only to be kids in return.
Hell is in everyone who has suffered injustice at the hands of life because Hell is the burden we carry. Hell is the vengeful tears of children, the spiteful tongues of intellectals, and the utter loss of will in humankind. Hell is right beside you every moment and it isn't satisfied.
So go, live your life in this pile of refuse that exists as an excuse for a world and know that "God is Dead...And No One Cares". Hell is here. And I see your face every day. Fuck it. This place is disgusting and so are the pitiful monsters that inhabit it. I need to get out.
-S.R.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Abandon Ship
I'm like clotted up shit in your synapses, your syntaxes, with poorly written reflexes or retractions. Some things I probably should have never brought to light, never put to white, never said in type. There are rhymes and then there are times when nothing seems quite lyrical, the literal interpretation of the physical is ridiculed and cynical. And then, sometimes, you just make some shit up that sounds good and run with it. Forget the need to say something and mean something, forget that they're not mutually exclusive. Forget it. Unlearn what you have learned.
I like verbatim, but I prefer vulgarity.
And now you see the clarity, the pure, genetic rarity. You see the underside of me. Not the other side, you've seen that. Or the Otherside, that's been there, too. But the underside. The parasites and symbiotes that cling to me because the filth that accrues along my underbelly nourishes them. It's a wicked sort of self-assurance, or maybe it's just self-deterrence. When my inhibitions punched out, the delusions clocked in. And it occurs to me, the only things I've left to say are sins.
My only fear is anonymity, that when I die and Odin hoists me from this mortal world, I will have said only sweet nothings, and nothing worth recalling.
I have written volumes upon volumes of words for no reason. Save that maybe Whitman was right and the world around us sings and breathes and speaks. Perhaps then all these noises are more than half-imagined. Or maybe less. They build to a crescendo, but I cannot discern the words, nor the notes, nor the instruments. Bagpipes, maybe. Pissed-off Scotsmen.
I like poetry in motion, but I like motion in poetry more.
Similies are like anal sex. Often times awesome, occasionally just good, and every once in a while someone takes a shit on you.
I called you forty times today, and each time I called you a whore. And each time, I wondered if it would be the last time my lascivious thirst would seek you out. I wondered in the most salacious of my ravenous appetites had been, at least blunted. And each time I found myself wishing I could simply eat you and have the fantasy done with. No bones left to admire, no skin to caress, no muscle to watch, awe-struck at the pure, naked beauty. Just a hollow bit of air where you used to stand and wait for me to need you.
This is foolishness. Utter folly. Gods grant me a sword, I think I've fallen in love.
Man Overboard,
S.R.
I like verbatim, but I prefer vulgarity.
And now you see the clarity, the pure, genetic rarity. You see the underside of me. Not the other side, you've seen that. Or the Otherside, that's been there, too. But the underside. The parasites and symbiotes that cling to me because the filth that accrues along my underbelly nourishes them. It's a wicked sort of self-assurance, or maybe it's just self-deterrence. When my inhibitions punched out, the delusions clocked in. And it occurs to me, the only things I've left to say are sins.
My only fear is anonymity, that when I die and Odin hoists me from this mortal world, I will have said only sweet nothings, and nothing worth recalling.
I have written volumes upon volumes of words for no reason. Save that maybe Whitman was right and the world around us sings and breathes and speaks. Perhaps then all these noises are more than half-imagined. Or maybe less. They build to a crescendo, but I cannot discern the words, nor the notes, nor the instruments. Bagpipes, maybe. Pissed-off Scotsmen.
I like poetry in motion, but I like motion in poetry more.
Similies are like anal sex. Often times awesome, occasionally just good, and every once in a while someone takes a shit on you.
I called you forty times today, and each time I called you a whore. And each time, I wondered if it would be the last time my lascivious thirst would seek you out. I wondered in the most salacious of my ravenous appetites had been, at least blunted. And each time I found myself wishing I could simply eat you and have the fantasy done with. No bones left to admire, no skin to caress, no muscle to watch, awe-struck at the pure, naked beauty. Just a hollow bit of air where you used to stand and wait for me to need you.
This is foolishness. Utter folly. Gods grant me a sword, I think I've fallen in love.
Man Overboard,
S.R.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
One Part Poet, Two Parts Viking
I've got the jitters again, like some kind of junkie. I shake in the wee hours of the night, as the sun slowly rises, seeking to murder vampires and chase away the nightmares. I can feel my fingers trembling, as if with an influx of adrenaline, like they would if I could lay them across your naked skin. My stomach flutters, full of too much coffee and not enough real nourishment. There is electricity in my nerves, racing here and there, without any clear goal, no concise pattern, no sign of start or end. My lips twitch themselves into a smile I've tried to repress, to hide, for fear that you'd find me out.
Sometimes, I can be such a child.
There is a youthful vigor in this, a relaxing reminder that the many winters I've survived have not aged me beyond my prime, beyond this place in life that is open to mistakes and adventures. Not many things grant me that these days. We're all getting older and, I suspect, we grow wearier in heart than in body. Our flesh and bones are young, powerful, and full of prospects. Our minds have been convinced that we're too old for this kind of tom-foolery, that the days of silly crushes and hapless flirting are too far behind us to reclaim. Our minds have been misled.
I should have figured this out some time ago, the connection between body and mind. The way that, when one finds the truth the other can be shown, made to follow. Life is equal parts mental and physical, and all things encompassed are divided as such. I find myself drawn to you, part physical, part otherwise, and I can convince the rest to follow.
You're arrival here has been timely, and an epiphany accompanied you that if I am to stand with bared chest to the storm, to the roiling, wrathful sea, and set out across these waves to find distant shores to plunder, to conquer, to unite, I must be whole. Perhaps, then, your coming is a gift from these gods I hold so dear.
There was something about the way the snow fell on you that entranced me. There is nothing inherently permanent about it, nothing to tie us together indefinately. And yet, the season seems to linger forever, the snow and the winter hold to the earth, unrelenting, undaunted by the inevitability of the warmth returning. It holds sway over all the world, an icy throne drawing its power from the threat of never departing. I find comfort in that kind of duality.
Only the heartiest and, perhaps, the most foolhardy, brave these days of little light and merciless cold. We hunt for prey, for glory, for the thrill and the chance that, should we meet a wanderer stronger than ourselves, more blessed by the gods, we will have the privilege to die honorably and be received.
Some nights, I pray that you will be my killing ground and that, when you continue on your path through this place, I will continue my journey far away from this world.
Yours,
-S.R.
Sometimes, I can be such a child.
There is a youthful vigor in this, a relaxing reminder that the many winters I've survived have not aged me beyond my prime, beyond this place in life that is open to mistakes and adventures. Not many things grant me that these days. We're all getting older and, I suspect, we grow wearier in heart than in body. Our flesh and bones are young, powerful, and full of prospects. Our minds have been convinced that we're too old for this kind of tom-foolery, that the days of silly crushes and hapless flirting are too far behind us to reclaim. Our minds have been misled.
I should have figured this out some time ago, the connection between body and mind. The way that, when one finds the truth the other can be shown, made to follow. Life is equal parts mental and physical, and all things encompassed are divided as such. I find myself drawn to you, part physical, part otherwise, and I can convince the rest to follow.
You're arrival here has been timely, and an epiphany accompanied you that if I am to stand with bared chest to the storm, to the roiling, wrathful sea, and set out across these waves to find distant shores to plunder, to conquer, to unite, I must be whole. Perhaps, then, your coming is a gift from these gods I hold so dear.
There was something about the way the snow fell on you that entranced me. There is nothing inherently permanent about it, nothing to tie us together indefinately. And yet, the season seems to linger forever, the snow and the winter hold to the earth, unrelenting, undaunted by the inevitability of the warmth returning. It holds sway over all the world, an icy throne drawing its power from the threat of never departing. I find comfort in that kind of duality.
Only the heartiest and, perhaps, the most foolhardy, brave these days of little light and merciless cold. We hunt for prey, for glory, for the thrill and the chance that, should we meet a wanderer stronger than ourselves, more blessed by the gods, we will have the privilege to die honorably and be received.
Some nights, I pray that you will be my killing ground and that, when you continue on your path through this place, I will continue my journey far away from this world.
Yours,
-S.R.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Dating Blows
Have you ever played one of those dating simulators? Or Harvest Moon where you have to court one of the five girls in town (really, there are only five?) and get her to go out with you and, eventually, you get married? I think those are a great deal like real life relationships, in that I continuously fail at them. I mean, real life girls don't have a meter that fills up a little more or a specific type of gift you have to buy them to coerce them into going out to a specific date, but you get the idea pretty quickly that this whole interpersonal relationship thing takes quite a bit of work, a little finesse, and a lot of attention. These are things I find lacking in my set of skills.
There are other things that stop me from being good at it, like having an attractive personality. I am, and will always be, offensive. I'm offensive in my humor, in the things I say and think. That, to a lot of people, is hilarious. But you wouldn't take a guy like me to meet your parents. I'd make a joke at your dad about nailing his wife and, boom, he hates my guts. Which is great when you're a fifteen year old rebel. It sucks when you enter that part of your life (this part, actually) where you start looking to be serious and settle down. Maybe I'm not ready for that. Or maybe you're a bitch. Whatever.
The problem isn't that I'm too lacksadaisical about life. I'll tell you I'm fundamentally unable to be serious, but the truth is I can't act serious. It isn't fun, it's depressing. If you go about life being serious all the time, you'll end up with an ulcer, and colon cancer from squeezing your ass so tight all the time. I prefer the opposite method of taking nothing seriously. I understand that my attitude bothers some people, I just don't understand why. I don't empathize with it.
I take my work seriously, but I joke about it. I take my writing seriously, but I joke about it. I take my obsession with the physical seriously, but it is much easier to joke about being addicted to boning than it is to explain to someone that "physical" doesn't necessarily mean "I'm going to have sex with every girl ever." I guess that's off-putting.
Timing really fucks me up. See, there's that time at the beginning of a relationshipw when everything is care-free and everybody looses sleep over being happy, and they miss work because they want to go see their "boo" and it's all sunshine and rainbows flying out of your ass. I'm too intense for that. I jump right in up to my elbows and breeze past the boring novelty of it all. Let's get right into the routine. Then, when you've gotten to know each other, you become more serious and you start having plans. That's when I get all wacky and full of fun. My sense of humor rears its ugly head again and, as well as I've gotten to know someone, they've only gotten to know the bullshit I spew out to keep them hooked. They get to know me and they're like "You were right, you're kind of an asshole."
Told you so, honey bunny. You didn't want to listen.
What I mean to say is, I'm bad at dating. I'm pretty bad at choosing who to date as well. For a while I just figured I'd get over it. You know, stop putting on a show and be able to open up earlier on. Then we wouldn't have so much invested in each other by the time she decided to bounce. Or I decided she was fucking crazy and had to leave the state. Then I realized I'm not really putting on a show at all. I've just got some really bizarre personality quirks. And you thought this was going to be about women. Hah. I'm way too self-centered to talk about women.
How many of you reading this (seriously, does anyone read this? I didn't think so.) display different behavior around different people? Everyone does. I just go to extremes (because I'm "EXTREME!!!!") with that concept. I'm funny and charming and quick-witted a good portion of the time. Especially around groups of people. I'm like cocaine, all full of energy, talking fast and making your nose bleed. I'm quick with a joke, quick to tell you whatever you want to hear. I like to make you happy. If you don't mind making fun of everyone, including the white folk but primarily blacks, jews, women, the handicapped, people that are less "alpha-male" and more follower, and myself, then we'll get along fine. I like to turn my own self-depreciation into humor. It's a typical comedian behavor. Except I'm not doing stand-up. We're just having a conversation.
The problem is I have this need for gratification. If you're not laughing, eating it up, visibly in love with my performance, then the act goes sour and I'll do one of two things. I'll either come down from the high and hit this devastating low, wherein I'll suddenly fall silent and my mind will wander off to loathe me somewhere else. Or, I'll try harder, desperately in fact, to capture your attention as I had it before. Usually by saying more and more disgusting shit that will, most of the time, just make everyone around me feel awkward. Then I'll get snarky and laugh at their feeble sensibilities and think privately about how weak they are, all the while berating myself for being such a class-A piece of shit.
It really rocks being me, most of the time. The rest of the time, it can be kind of a drag.
With friends this formula is almost always successful. I'm engaging enough that I keep their attention and my opinions are usually withing the boundaries of what they find acceptable. The problem is, dating requires something deeper that I, frankly, don't have. I can't tell you about my feelings because I don't really have any. If I love you, I'll tell you I love you. If I'm sad, I'll tell you I'm sad. I don't know why any of these things occur, they just do. I greet most incoming emotions as a challenge. We sword fight, I win, they typically go away. Some of them hang around. Love is, as of right now, the reigning champ. Kicks my ass everytime. But that's alright, I like that feeling.
But like I said, there isn't much else to me. Sometimes I get into moods where I'm angry for no reason, or just down for no reason. I appreciate having you around, but you won't cheer me up. The battle has to rage and I have to put that fucker down like the dog it is, then I'll be alright again. Girls, for some reason, don't like that much. They assume there has to be a reason, and I have to know that reason. Why, is beyond me. If she's feeling down, I accept that she's feeling down. If she wants to talk about it, no problem. If she doesn't, hey, I can play X-box.
Someone told me I'm a sociopath. So, I guess that solves the problem.
Cool.
Yours,
-S.R.
There are other things that stop me from being good at it, like having an attractive personality. I am, and will always be, offensive. I'm offensive in my humor, in the things I say and think. That, to a lot of people, is hilarious. But you wouldn't take a guy like me to meet your parents. I'd make a joke at your dad about nailing his wife and, boom, he hates my guts. Which is great when you're a fifteen year old rebel. It sucks when you enter that part of your life (this part, actually) where you start looking to be serious and settle down. Maybe I'm not ready for that. Or maybe you're a bitch. Whatever.
The problem isn't that I'm too lacksadaisical about life. I'll tell you I'm fundamentally unable to be serious, but the truth is I can't act serious. It isn't fun, it's depressing. If you go about life being serious all the time, you'll end up with an ulcer, and colon cancer from squeezing your ass so tight all the time. I prefer the opposite method of taking nothing seriously. I understand that my attitude bothers some people, I just don't understand why. I don't empathize with it.
I take my work seriously, but I joke about it. I take my writing seriously, but I joke about it. I take my obsession with the physical seriously, but it is much easier to joke about being addicted to boning than it is to explain to someone that "physical" doesn't necessarily mean "I'm going to have sex with every girl ever." I guess that's off-putting.
Timing really fucks me up. See, there's that time at the beginning of a relationshipw when everything is care-free and everybody looses sleep over being happy, and they miss work because they want to go see their "boo" and it's all sunshine and rainbows flying out of your ass. I'm too intense for that. I jump right in up to my elbows and breeze past the boring novelty of it all. Let's get right into the routine. Then, when you've gotten to know each other, you become more serious and you start having plans. That's when I get all wacky and full of fun. My sense of humor rears its ugly head again and, as well as I've gotten to know someone, they've only gotten to know the bullshit I spew out to keep them hooked. They get to know me and they're like "You were right, you're kind of an asshole."
Told you so, honey bunny. You didn't want to listen.
What I mean to say is, I'm bad at dating. I'm pretty bad at choosing who to date as well. For a while I just figured I'd get over it. You know, stop putting on a show and be able to open up earlier on. Then we wouldn't have so much invested in each other by the time she decided to bounce. Or I decided she was fucking crazy and had to leave the state. Then I realized I'm not really putting on a show at all. I've just got some really bizarre personality quirks. And you thought this was going to be about women. Hah. I'm way too self-centered to talk about women.
How many of you reading this (seriously, does anyone read this? I didn't think so.) display different behavior around different people? Everyone does. I just go to extremes (because I'm "EXTREME!!!!") with that concept. I'm funny and charming and quick-witted a good portion of the time. Especially around groups of people. I'm like cocaine, all full of energy, talking fast and making your nose bleed. I'm quick with a joke, quick to tell you whatever you want to hear. I like to make you happy. If you don't mind making fun of everyone, including the white folk but primarily blacks, jews, women, the handicapped, people that are less "alpha-male" and more follower, and myself, then we'll get along fine. I like to turn my own self-depreciation into humor. It's a typical comedian behavor. Except I'm not doing stand-up. We're just having a conversation.
The problem is I have this need for gratification. If you're not laughing, eating it up, visibly in love with my performance, then the act goes sour and I'll do one of two things. I'll either come down from the high and hit this devastating low, wherein I'll suddenly fall silent and my mind will wander off to loathe me somewhere else. Or, I'll try harder, desperately in fact, to capture your attention as I had it before. Usually by saying more and more disgusting shit that will, most of the time, just make everyone around me feel awkward. Then I'll get snarky and laugh at their feeble sensibilities and think privately about how weak they are, all the while berating myself for being such a class-A piece of shit.
It really rocks being me, most of the time. The rest of the time, it can be kind of a drag.
With friends this formula is almost always successful. I'm engaging enough that I keep their attention and my opinions are usually withing the boundaries of what they find acceptable. The problem is, dating requires something deeper that I, frankly, don't have. I can't tell you about my feelings because I don't really have any. If I love you, I'll tell you I love you. If I'm sad, I'll tell you I'm sad. I don't know why any of these things occur, they just do. I greet most incoming emotions as a challenge. We sword fight, I win, they typically go away. Some of them hang around. Love is, as of right now, the reigning champ. Kicks my ass everytime. But that's alright, I like that feeling.
But like I said, there isn't much else to me. Sometimes I get into moods where I'm angry for no reason, or just down for no reason. I appreciate having you around, but you won't cheer me up. The battle has to rage and I have to put that fucker down like the dog it is, then I'll be alright again. Girls, for some reason, don't like that much. They assume there has to be a reason, and I have to know that reason. Why, is beyond me. If she's feeling down, I accept that she's feeling down. If she wants to talk about it, no problem. If she doesn't, hey, I can play X-box.
Someone told me I'm a sociopath. So, I guess that solves the problem.
Cool.
Yours,
-S.R.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
The Love of Death
Drag me down, despite my superior air. Drag me down to your level, where even the maggots would not deign to go. Pull me from this high horse with hands that reek of earth and rot, fleshless hands that embody the cold nature of death. Your mouth is open, toothless, in some kind of silent scream, plea, or challenge. Perhaps your nose, if you had one, would be curled in a snarl and your eyes, were they not long withered, would be aglow with some fierce need.
Pull me away from the pettiness of my conceit, the prettiness of my words, and into the welcoming womb of the earth. Into the dark. Into the silence, that cavernous lack of anything familiar, anything alive. Embrace me there, in your own realm, where your power is at its greatest, where you are whole (if a thing like yourself can be whole). Devour me, if you will, because it has been much too long since I've felt anything like pain. Too long since I encountered something strong enough to hurt me. Lure me in with sweetness, and eat me.
Love, you've been far too long in coming.
Yours,
-S.R.
Pull me away from the pettiness of my conceit, the prettiness of my words, and into the welcoming womb of the earth. Into the dark. Into the silence, that cavernous lack of anything familiar, anything alive. Embrace me there, in your own realm, where your power is at its greatest, where you are whole (if a thing like yourself can be whole). Devour me, if you will, because it has been much too long since I've felt anything like pain. Too long since I encountered something strong enough to hurt me. Lure me in with sweetness, and eat me.
Love, you've been far too long in coming.
Yours,
-S.R.
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