No, I am not here to give you a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Sometimes I want to resign myself to being as angry as I feel. I grow so weary of constantly biting my tongue because other people in the world seem to be too fucking sensitive to take it. You can’t say anything; it’s as though I’m in a world of spineless, cowering children. Oh yes, they can throw all the tantrums they want, right, given that they are older and supposedly wiser than someone like me. They can bitch, they can moan. I am the one that needs to listen and give a shit, they seem to think. But I don’t. Not even a little.

I love how age is equated to intelligence. It’s as though somehow having a life full of mistakes is somehow better than being a person who’s lived their life actually paying attention. I didn’t go out and fuck everything in sight, I didn’t go out and do drugs, even though I was surrounded by that bullshit. It angers me, that here I am, trying to have some semblance of a life, consciously making decisions when I don’t even want to fucking be here! If I can do this, why the fuck can’t they? Why is it that I am the one that’s wrong, I’m the killjoy for not running around like a dumbfuck?

I get blamed for their mistakes, I get written off because sometimes, yeah, I lose my goddamn temper. But standing around being this cold, numb thing…believe me, there hits a point where it becomes too much. I am a controlled, calculating, evil person in my life. I admit it. Yes, I constantly play people, manipulate them, push them. My parents don’t even fucking know who I am anymore. They think I’m okay. Yes, she has some depression issues, but she’ll get over it.

Yes, I’m fine. I’m perfectly okay. I’m smiling because I love life, not because I’m thinking about how nice it would be to do what I want so fucking badly. Oh, and how I want to. It’s like a game. Pick the best suicide, pick which one would be the most fun, give you the most bang for your buck, so that when I’m through breathing I’ll have the last fucking laugh. Because no one ever knew, not really. They never saw it. I showed it to them blatantly, but they don’t see. They are so blind. Or maybe they do see, but either don’t care, or don’t know how to stop it. What does it matter though.

Ignorance is bliss, isn’t it? You don’t have to see something ugly if you don’t feel you are capable. You can cover it in an old blanket and forget it is there. Out of sight, out of mind.



Usually I try to ensure that even if it’s the dead of winter, I get outside. I tend to go stir crazy being indoors all of the time, trapped in a square with nothing but the same stimulus over and over again. Just a blasting television, a stereo playing something, a small heater running, and about ten projects splayed out in various places. My desk is such a wreck that I’ve given up on finding anything. I throw my scraps of notes all over it, then snatch at them later when I need them for reference. I tried keeping a journal full of them, but eventually, that too got lost, under the pile of doodles, all the sewing machine paraphernalia (one of the ‘projects’), and all the random paint tubes that get scattered around by my cat.

He just leaps on top of it all, fairly unconcerned with whether or not he is thoroughly destroying everything. He’s cleared a spot by my computer by shoving everything out of the way. He sits there staring, literally for hours on end. Looking at me. I feel like I’ve said this before. The cat doesn’t even lie down, just sits there uncomfortably. Every time I look over (which is usually unintentional, as I’m searching for something), he meows. He’ll then wait for me to make eye contact, and if I do, he continues to meow like we’re having a conversation. My mother keeps asking me if I’m talking to someone. Yeah. I’m talking to the fucking cat sitting on my desk, watching me.

But I’ve been sleeping so much, today I finally got fed up with myself, got dressed, and finally went for a walk after about a month-long absence. I think it was driving me crazy, being inside. Feeling trapped, caged, with the same people day after day. There’s a worn trail on my carpet right in front of my television where I pace like something gone mad. Hours. Pace, pace. That habit hasn’t stopped, no matter how much I’ve tried to work on it over the years. It keeps getting worse. But it helps calm me down. My mind goes and goes and goes, never stopping. I can’t find solace, I can’t find rest, so I wear my body out in an attempt to shut my head down. I’ve taken to using allergy medication to get myself to sleep lately, because I’m sleeping so much my body doesn’t want sleep. 14 hours is too much, for anyone. I’m trying to sleep it all away, I think. I’m hoping that each time I wake up it will be a different reality, a different mood.

There’s days when I wake up and do feel different. Maybe I went to bed hopeless and I wake up feeling…alright. Not so much a mess. More clarity. I’ve also discovered that I can go without sleep, something I’ve been toying with. My thoughts turn off a little when I’m extremely tired, something I dread, and something that I never thought I would try to do intentionally. But now, I want them off, I want nothingness sometimes, because I’ve gotten used to it. I’m getting addicted to numb. It’s so much easier when there is nothing to think about. None of it matters at those times, and that is both something to enjoy and something to loathe. Sometimes it is beautiful to look at what you treasure and for it to suddenly mean absolutely nothing.

But the woods were missing. I missed them. It was 16 degrees and windy, but I felt a lot better after disappearing for a long while. I keep forgetting I’m not just something automated, that I am something alive. I have to be out in the cold, dry air and feel it sometimes. I can’t just go by memory, as much as I want to. I have to have those short little glimpses of something not this, something not so rigidly controlled, or I start to go mad. I forget it’s there, then all I see is gloom.

Suffering in vain.

I know that at times, my situation is my own fault. I never like to negate the blame as far as lifestyle goes, because I chose that for myself. I chose isolation, I chose this bland reality of glaring computer screens and endless nights staring into the blackness at the ceiling, somehow wanting something more, yet never truly knowing (or caring for that matter), what it was. It just goes. I just go along.

I think that passiveness is both what I hate and what I love—it is always a draw. When I am passive, I don’t have to face anything; I ignore it, it then is no longer a part of my reality unless and outside influence forces it to be vomited forth once again. It can be buried under my layers of protection, virtually nonexistent. But that it just it, it still remains there, still is there. I forget that at times. It doesn’t just die, but stays to haunt, sometimes because I unconsciously seem to allow it to, a punishment for not being forceful and biting when I should have been.

So in retrospect, I am my enemy. And really, I do not see anything wrong with that. I have disentangled myself from my former life, so that now it is as though it never existed. I prefer it that way; no matter what I say at times, so scathingly of what has occurred, secretly it is my wish to have never endured it. To have been stuck in that hazy reality where it didn’t matter if I was lying, and it didn’t matter if nobody knew or cared. It was good to be surrounded by blatant apathy, as in a sense it kept me human. Back in the days when I believed in morality, I believed in friends and pursuing happiness. When I lied to myself to keep going.

Now I look for the darkest corners, hoping to find something that is more vile than what I have become, more hating, more disgusted, more self absorbed. Something to prove that this isn’t the end of all things, but the start of something that when I die will probably not even be half finished. I can only guess that there must be a million more fathomless pits to fall down, as this never seems to end. When I think I’ve had enough, the floor drops out again. And again, and again. The falling isn’t so bad; it’s the hitting the floor part. You convince yourself to get up again (for fuck knows why), to totter around on sore feet for awhile until you break another floorboard and sink right through. Again. And why, like a moron, you keep getting up again, you simply cannot answer. Human stupidity? A ridiculous sense of hope? Oh you can guess, surely, but eventually none of those answers make sense anymore.

 There is no reason to try again and again except some sort of refusal to accept reality. The reality is that no one fixes their floors. Of fucking course you are going to go through. Accept it. Get a motherfucking parachute, or die on one of the floors when you decide to live up to truth, I suppose. I keep saying that, dying. Ah well, old habits take a long time to die, just like people.

Don’t be a prude.

Sometimes I really shock myself with my bizarre reactions to things. I have some sort of expectation (I always do), generally the worst one possible, so that when I get to the situation I already have a good idea of exactly what doesn’t need to happen.

I’m went boot shopping, since I need to replace an older pair. Oddly, even in this climate, I didn’t find anything even reminiscent of what I was looking for.  I just want plain black knee high lace ups, simple, durable. But none of the stores carry anything like that around, just weird furry boots and high heeled leather boots that would be ruined by me in a matter of hours, and all look almost exactly the same running from $50 to $300. All the while I have in the back of my mind “what about that weird purple building . . . don’t they sell costumes?”.

I drag my mother there. It looks tiny, rinky-dink. I’m not sure if it’s a sex shop as well, but when I see the blacked out windows that gives me a bit of a hint. I’ve always wondered what was in there, and given its name, I have a couple of ideas . . . .

My mother is loosing her nerve. “We can’t go in there . . . what if someone follows us home?” Right when she says this, a man with about five facial piercings literally stumbles out of the building, wearing ragged clothes and a vacant expression. My mother is clearly nervous, but the sighting only piques my interest—I HAVE to see what’s in there.

She’s walking extra slow, as though this will somehow prevent her from the shame of entering a place that seems far too risque for her. She’s a bit of a prude, or rather, she pretends to be. When it comes to being public about anything sexual, she’s embarrassed. I think it’s funny, and I’m rather shocked by the fact that all I am feeling is excitement at doing something that is “shocking” to her. The woman needs a little adventure, and so do I for that matter. I’m thinking that I’m going to blush and get embarrassed too, but I end up pleasantly surprised. We’re sheltered and from the country, so to speak. It seems strange to other people, but just think repressed.

We get in through the tiny little door. Lingerie EVERYWHERE. I’m assaulted by the obnoxious leopard print carpet, but I’m also instantly a little giddy. Not just bras and thongs . . . nope, these people seem to have made the store just for me. Corsets, everywhere. More than I’ve ever seen in one place. The whole bottom floor is chock full of ’em, and I’m going through the racks, grinning. Yes, I know, I am a walking contradiction. I despise femininity, I shoot guns and ride ATVs, but for some reason I have a bizarre obsession with something binding and high maintenance by my own standards. I could get into some fucked up Freudian psychoanalyzing mode, but I’m not going to . . . because I hate Freud.

My mom is getting interested. “They have a lot of stuff here,” she says, starting to look, loosing that nervousness in a matter of seconds. Suddenly, it’s not a whore store to her and she wants to see what they’ve got. I’m laughing to myself, thinking “wonder what’s over in that corner in the back . . .”. I go through everything, finding that, hey, I could buy a corset there cheaper than what I’ve gotten my other ones for, and I get my pick of which one I want.

There’s a man and a woman, arguing over which outfit to buy her for their sexual escapade. She’s holding out something red, and I’m not really paying attention, though I’m listening, as he says which one he likes and she debates him. Then the store clerk is laughing and helping them decide. When they leave the section, I wander over.

I find a leather corset, something that I’ve always wanted, but never found. I have the urge to chuck all my birthday money for some instant gratification—but I don’t, thankfully. I find boots too, though my mom is having that ‘eww’ reaction because they’re patent and to her, something a . . . uh . . . streetwalker would wear. If I was alone I probably would have tried some of it on and even bought something, but as it was, they all had heels and looked too feminine for my taste, though they were much closer to what I was searching for than anything I saw everywhere else. I wonder if that says something about me as a person . . . . But anyway.

I have to go to the back, I can’t resist. My mother isn’t brave enough to go with me, but I don’t much care—gives me a better opportunity to look at things. This is the part where I think I’m going to get embarrassed, but surprisingly, I’m not even feeling a hint of shyness, even as I look at dildos the size of my arm, and some weird porn DVDs stashed off to the side. I don’t know why I assumed that I would have my mother’s reaction. I guess since I have a tendency to get shy about strange things,  I naturally assumed that anything sex related would cause a similar reaction. I’ve never been in a porn shop, but I’ve seen my share of weird contraptions online, and none of the things in that store held a torch to any of it, therefore I looked over things with a bit of boredom, surprisingly.

I find boots in the minuscule BDSM section, but unfortunately they have some sort of harness attached to them so that the wearer can be suspended upside down. Damn. Of course the ones I like, I can’t buy . . . . I’m not even going to get into that. I stare at a few of the movies, all of which have covers you can see (every place I’ve been in that sells porn has them covered over, which makes it no fun). I get bored fairly quickly though, and go back into the other part of the store, where I stare longingly at the leather corset I can’t afford. I pet it a few times, like a little kid, running things over in my head, weighing my options. Sure, I have $175 dollars, I just don’t want to give it up in one fell swoop . . . . My mom’s looking through all the lingerie, muttering something about coming back later.

I decide it’s time to go upstairs since there’s some masks that look to be calling me  that I can see from the bottom of the staircase. I didn’t know they made masks for The Devil’s Rejects. There’s a bunch of men milling around upstairs, which makes me wonder if I’ve entered the section I’m really searching for (though I’m not quite sure what that is . . . something obscene, maybe? I’ve realized that my idea of obscene isn’t as prudish as I originally suspected, in fact, I might actually be normal. Who would have thought.).

Nope. Just a bunch of pot paraphernalia, nothing I’m interested in. I’ve never seen so many bongs in one place before, or actually seen them out in the open or not made of cast off plastic soda bottles. There’s some weird glass stuff in a case, that I don’t feel like checking out. They’re not glass sex toys, so I’m not interested (I like to ogle the weird ones). There’s costumes in a dark corner, but just the typical boring stuff. Think: purple ape. Sexy French Maid. How quaint. I frown, go back downstairs, stopping halfway to admire the picture that seems to look at you as you walk by.

I want to try on some of the corsets, but I refrain, trying to remind myself how lazy I am. I’m already wearing a corset, and I’d have to take it off and change in a environment I don’t trust . . . . That’s how I talk myself out of owning a fourth corset, and eventually, after another five minutes, finally leave the store. Ah, self control, sometimes it really does come in handy. I never did find my boots. I guess I have to order online again. Damn.

Tear out the last page.

I think it’s interesting that when people start something, they generally can’t stop. It seems to be an aspiration to not only to complete things, but to discover how they end. Verily, what is so great about reading someone else’s ending? Take books for instance. A lot of times I pick up books that I never have any intention of finishing. Yes, I started reading it for a reason, but it’s fleeting; only lasts a day or two, or sometimes, mere minutes. I have a short attention span when it comes to literature, I suppose because there is usually a happy ending involved. Not that happy endings are a bad thing, but a lot of the time, given the context, the characters, it just…doesn’t fit. It stinks of fantasy. I hate that it doesn’t have realism, believability. If characters were constantly risking their lives the entire book, chances are they aren’t going to live to the last chapter. IN A REAL WORLD. These are books of course, which are made to please people, not so much to make them think or change their perspective (though those types exist as well).

Call it bitter and cynical, but the moment a character does something I don’t like, I’m considering dropping the book. What you get a lot are the, what I like to term, the “stand around” characters. They are our hero for the story, always after some unattainable goal, yet every time they are in a bind they go lifeless as a beached whale, and kind of lay there suffering waiting for some nice beach-goer to shove them out to sea again (meaning they wait for the situation to arise and change whatever they are trying to change rather than pursuing that change for themselves). They come off as a protagonist, but truly they are nothing but a bunch of typical ideas that aren’t put to use until it is almost absolutely certain they are going to die.

Harry Potter, for lack of any other well-known character (considering I can barely recall the last time I read an actual book [great personal recommendation, don’t you think?]), is one of those types. He has ideas, a lot of them, but they don’t get put to use until the very last book (which there are seven of, mind you). He gets randomly pushed into situations out of his control, yet he never really…goes after them for himself, he has to be coaxed. That’s what I always hated about him; he was too much of a pacifist. He never took what he wanted, he just stood around waiting for things to happen and didn’t become anything of a ‘hero’ until he was pushed hard enough to get furious. And he reallyhad a long fuse, likely for the sake of more books. I always preferred Snape to Harry, because though he was little more than a petty bully on the outside, he was constantly spinning webs and doing what he believed for his own reasons. There’s something to be admired in being the person no one ever sees coming.

At times, even when you do have the ending you were hoping for, you suddenly come to the realization that it wasn’t what you truly wanted. I wonder sometimes if my penchant for terrible endings (hence High Tension, The Devil’s Advocate, The Ninth Gate, etc.) , is just a cover for my love of good endings. Like that maybe what I think I want…isn’t really the truth, it’s simply my thoughts on what I want.

Take for instance, the book version of “Hannibal”. The ending, though many say they hate it, was exactly what I was hoping for. It was happy in that disgusting, “holy-fuck-I-can’t-believe-I-wanted-the-serial-killer-and-the-too-moral-FBI-agent-to-end-up-together”. The funny, ironic part though, was that when I actually read the ending, I HATED it. Not because it wasn’t what I wanted—it was precisely what I had secretly wanted, but having it done, reading it…. I despised it. I was so confused when I finished that book, but later I figured out why it bothered me so much. Hannibal and Clarice could never end up together. It just doesn’t work. She can’t be brainwashed, and he can’t be ‘tamed’. It just doesn’t happen, even in the most idealof situations. It’s so blatantly fake that it hurts the eyes to look at. For that reason I finished it kind of sickened. I felt like the people I believed in were ruined.

I think in the end the grand schemes we come up with in our minds are always better. I could have dealt with not finishing the book and assumingthat somehow Hannibal and Clarice live happily ever after, or that Harry Potter somehow managed to kill Voldemort and so on. It probably would have been better too, because all I would need is a feeling. Sometimes those are just so much more powerful than words can ever convey, and make us hold onto the hope that our stupidest of wishes can really be granted, and somehow magically be made to work even when in reality, they shouldn’t. The world works that way with books, and really, it can work that way with life as well. You can tear out the last page yourself, or sometimes it gets torn out for you. Or you can just go until the end and hope that it will be something you find relatively agreeable.

Life has no purpose.

Why does this have to continue? Why didn’t I just die in the womb, back when I was nothing but a blob of seemingly meaningless tissue? I think that nothingness, that lack of purpose, it has tainted everything that I know. Not because I wanted it to, but because I finally stopped denying it. I ceased to pretend that every little thing I do means something; it doesn’t, not really. When I die, such things will not matter, will they?

I have no illusions, and that is the problem. People live through ego, I do too, but in a very different, singular way. I don’t feign happiness. I don’t have to lie about the world and the people in it in order to keep breathing—I have proved that through these years. But in the end I come to the conclusion that there is nothing for me to do here. I have grown bored, bored and unstimulated. I feel as though I am in a white room of white furniture; there is no contrast, no color, nothing. I keep living, merely because I don’t know what else to do, and cowardice keeps me from latching with a death grip onto darker options.

I say the same things over and over again, as though I hope to convince myself, to fully appreciate just how little impact I have on anything, and how it would not make a difference were I to just end very suddenly. People would cry, then they would move on. Maybe then they would see that I have never really been here anyway, I’m just a faded memory.

I realize now that I breathe because this body lives, not because I aspire to be something, or hope to find some sort of purpose. It is all pointless. I am pointless. I just want to feel alive again. I want to careabout this instead of avoiding it or shrugging it off, or leaving it for this stupid fucking piece of shit blog. Nothing I have tried works; I just see no reason, again and again, and I chastise myself for even thinking that I should have some sort of purpose in this place. There isn’t one, there never was. I’m not even scared of that. What scares me is that I am getting to the point where I want to die not only because of sheer misery, but because I’m absolutely fucking bored out of my mind in this place. It isn’t for me, it never was.

Everything feels so incredibly wrong. I’m wrong. And it just keeps going, apathetic to me as I am to it.

The truth comes out.

So it really is true: the world is full of needy people who believe that love is going to skyrocket them to happiness. How charming. How weak.

I am sort of consumed by hate right now, so I’m sure my words will be particularly bitter. But I am so disgusted by this place, by their values. They always try to pawn them off onto me, to break me, to drag me into their sick little hole of co-dependence where they rot, clinging to one another like a bunch of fucking children.

Is this what people are? Is this what I should come to expect? They are all drowning, slowly, painfully, and I am but watching. There is solace in this, even if it pains me sometimes, even if being the most misunderstood makes me seem petty and stupid in their eyes. For when did I ever agree with them?

I think I have hit something new, finally. And it was an idiot that brought it to my attention. So thank you, idiot, for giving me some material to manipulate and chew on for awhile…. I was getting sick of being so numb.

Happiness, goodness, benevolence, be damned. And most of all, I hope love burns. Stick to your lies, I’ll stick to what lies beneath them….