Another edit of the following story
My life is sometimes so disorganized, I have to remind myself of what I feel. I lose papers in papers, smeared with lipstick, red streaks leaving scarlet letters of my inconsistent responsibility.
I suppose that people sometimes need people. Sometimes I want to punch everyone in the face. Not for lack of apathy, or even extreme anger. I just think it would be nice to see someone else bleed every once in a while. I suppose it is my drive to make other people hurt as much as I do. The operative meaning being sometimes. Melancholy is what I had written about my posting following this. I fight with myself sometimes about what it all means. Am I negative because sometimes I only see the black spaces between the white? Or am I positive because I try to paint the white spaces way outside the lines? It really is a sickening problem, not too obvious, and confusing enough to cause a disturbing bout of anxiety.
I can say that I envy those with simpler concerns. I could almost tear my skin off with the frustration of constantly having to recognize that I am sick, and somehow getting sicker in different ways. Today is just a bitchy day, I guess. I toured this girl who was all of 22, telling me she had just graduated to being an investment banker. I tried to make her laugh, to no avail. She preferred her elevated status, and made sure I never really felt comfortable enough to socialize with her. I suppose with my creatin-like abilities, I was not on her level anyhow.
This was the original beginning to the posting I had following this one:
When he cums in me, it’s the closest feeling I have…Another person inside me, a metaphor for my broken condition. I clutch his ass and beg for more, wanting to get closer to that feeling, becoming more intimate. My body rejects this love in much the same way it rejects me, expelling out the unwanted parts, yet making room for the flow. It’s almost humorous I bleed at all. I guess it makes no sense that I would have buckets of nourishment for something that is dead. It pisses me off that I have to deal with it at all. I suppose the idea is to continue to remind me that I am literally half a natural person. Even worse is that my mind is the only whole piece left. Everything else turns into a sort of morbid joke.
I laugh because it is easier to stare ahead, be numb, and ‘play the role’. Playing the role was a gem from my mother, claiming that, as a kid, I was fucked up to think I had it any worse than either of my siblings. Maybe I don’t have it worse than anyone else, but I wonder how people deal. I think the whole idea that I live in one of the most superficial, calculating, and cold places is funny, and mildly hysterical. People laugh at me quite a bit; guys on the train sparking their ‘holier than thou’ attitude. Women laughing because their guys think it’s funny. The worst ones are the ones who get all caught up in the tangle of mazes on my stomach. They rarely have words to speak, but if the eyes could tell you stories much like pictures can, I would have volumes of bullshit to read. Like this girl who sat on the train opposite me the other day. Swollen with pregnancy, grinning. I felt the stares, yet stared ahead, unaffected. I can do this quite effectively; stare you down while you stare me down, and you would never know otherwise. Her breasts were all swollen, mouth open, the father’s mirroring hers in increased intensity. I suppose if I had a metronome for those moments, I could knock them both off their seats with just the sheer volume of my rage.
The boys showed me these pictures of this Alaskan bear eating and capture thing. I asked them to show me pictures of a unicorn, but instead I got kittens. Then I read the news. People are fucked up all over the place. I guess it’s kind of comforting to know that at least my father didn’t slaughter my mother in front of me, and that Austin whatever his name is is having a wild romance with Demi.
Tonight I want to be drunk. And get laid. I need to get drunk and get fucked.
Happy weekends to you all!
