Being right

Let’s face it: there’s really not much joy to it anymore. I already knew that things were worse than anyone would ever say, that human loyalty is so rare it might even be nothing more than legend. Everyone wants more money, more this, more that. I know that some days I want those things too; it would certainly make things easier. But at the end of it all, the core of things, life was never more tolerable than it was this last summer, gone so long on the trails in the woods, that sometimes I forgot I was supposed to come home. I could live with that. Live enough to keep going a few more years, even if I can’t say why, or how I’m doing it.

Is it bad that I want tear off your clothes and taste you as much as I want to suck my boyfriend’s cock? I wonder what that makes me. I guess it doesn’t matter, though I’m sure I will always care. The question is always there of ‘What am I?’. Did those girls fuck me up? Am I messed up? I’m not ashamed like I once was. I don’t care anymore. I’ve freely admitted it to those around me. What does it even matter? Isn’t it all just another reason to hate me, another reason to call me a freak or tell me I’m weird?

I want to ruin everything with my family. My cares are so worn thin that it has become flimsy even to onlookers. My rage gets the best of me, those odd occasions it decides to make itself known. The tone of my voice changes, my hands shake, and my eyes well with tears—I’ve always hated that about myself. It’s not a true rage unless tears are streaming down my face and my teeth are bared.

But I bide my time and I wait. And wait. My father used to tell me I was the most impatient person he knew. If only he knew… I’ve been waiting so long, the hair of my enemies has greyed, and the corners of their eyes are marred by wrinkles. I can wait. I can wait until the end of time if I have to. Lucky for me, they will die first from the simple passage of time.

All the people I hate but use, will die without ever knowing why I stood so attentively by their sides. They will die ignorant of my meddling, ignorant of all the roles I played. “Life is hard”, they will say, but I will always know the truth.

You don’t cross me and get away with it.


Rage: How fresh and new

I can’t even remember the last time I was truly angry. The last few weeks have certainly been a test of my waning patience. I may not get angry, but irritation is a daily companion. People just keep pushing… So much so that I was filled with this white-hot incredible feeling. I’d almost forgotten what something pure like this could feel like. This is real, this exists? It was so alien that I couldn’t help but take it for what it was, and wring it for every last precious drop of sensation it would give me. 

Oh but to feel, like a true, flesh and blood person… 

99% of the time I am not afforded that luxury, in any capacity, good or bad. What I wouldn’t give for some honest hatred or even a tantalizing stab of elation. But I guess those things aren’t for people like me. Being numb, begin apathetic, it’s just going to have to do for the rest of the time. 


I’m a little frightened. I’m getting that feeling again, the one I’ve been managing to keep at arm’s length for a while now. I feel like I’m falling back into it again. It’s becoming more frequent because now I don’t have 9 hours a day to ignore it all and get worn out to the point where it doesn’t matter. 

I feel so wrong and lost again. I’m not sure how it happened so fast, but everything is going back to hopeless and bleak and all I want is to just be so numb as to not care… I have no desires that I feel are attainable. I want to fall back into my little hole and never come out. I’m angry at my situation not because I am once again jobless, but because no one fucking gets it. This isn’t for me. How could they not see that about me? I don’t want to work the way normal people do; I want to go out and be independent in ways that aren’t considered normal or attainable. To me, there would be nothing greater than to walk out into the woods and never come back. 

I want to make my own way, live or die, sink or swim. It’s my own fault and I deserve my fate if I am not good enough. It’s how things should be. I want to be tested. I want to be found worthy or unworthy; I care not which. 

Everything is useless and meaningless and I should not spend my time filling in the cracks that were never meant to be filled. I am unwhole because I am nothing more than a pointless animal in a pointless cage with no value or meaning. You aren’t anything until you’re out, and maybe for some that sense of freedom can be gained by conventional means. If only it could be that way for me. The only conventional solution I can come to is complete and utter isolation for an extended period. 

And I know how I can do it. 



I’m not sure why I feel so bad. I guess it’s just the time of night, the thoughts that come around when it gets dark and I find I’m more or less alone. My chest aches; it’s this clenching feeling like it’s being squeezed. I don’t think I ever really get over anything, I just learn to think about it less.

I can’t decide what is worse: feeling wanted or unwanted. Sometimes I think the alternative to being alone is so much worse; there is so much bad that can come of it. I can’t make myself concerned enough to stop, but it hurts. Why do something that hurts? There isn’t even temporary relief anymore; it’s there and it never leaves. You’re caught with it, no matter what. Pursue what you will but it will come for you.

I am the greatest liar. It’s one of the very few things about myself I can admire. But here I am making myself more and more trouble. I going deeper and deeper and I’m finding I’m even more shallow than I ever suspected. I’m finding I’m one of those people I always voiced hatred and contempt for. I am taking all for me and damning anyone and everything that would condemn my ways. Am I not what I always wanted? Isn’t this what I wished for? To be detached and apathetic to anyone and everything, regardless of circumstance? Can I live with what I’ve done, what I am doing?

What does it matter, even, if I can’t have what I want above all else? Why should it matter if I tear a couple of people apart in the process? Is that not what this creature was intended for? Is that not what I have been trying for? I have grown. I am becoming better. Or worse. I still can’t decide which. Whatever this is, it is a little bit of change. I feel more angry and irrational by the day, and it makes this so much simpler. I am what I thought. My low self-esteem is entirely justified as far as I am concerned. It has all come true, hasn’t it? I am wanted only by things I am secretly disgusted by. I don’t want to admit it to myself, acknowledge just how bad I’ve been. I’m not guilty, only ashamed, ashamed that I have been taken down so easily without a fight.

I wish I could forget everything, but then I wouldn’t be going where I’m going. I wouldn’t feel like I’m actually becoming friends with my depression, to the point where no pills or doctors will be able to intervene on the path I am setting. I want to live in rage; I want to be blinded by negativity and hatred. They deserve it. I have been treated as nothing more than a plaything. I don’t need goals to live. I don’t need happiness to get by. They can take their shitty assumptions and ideals for themselves; I want no part. I’d prefer to live to destroy than to live for the sake of living. I won’t let anyone tell me different.

No apologies.

My desires are fairly unhealthy. They seem to be worsening, which is either a result of becoming jaded, or something to do with stress. The more stress, the worse the need for something exceedingly more depraved? I don’t know. I dare not think about it. I try to think of this monster as nothing but an animal, and all needs and interests attached to it as nothing but natural and required. Morality is as far from my mind as it could possibly be, perhaps because I finally am ceasing to believe. What any of this means, I can’t be entirely sure, though it would seem that in a sense, I am doing what is called growing up. I’m late in coming; I’ve always been that way. I was about 12 or 13 when I stopped needing to sleep with a low light on. Perhaps even older than that. It has always been the way of things. I’m still painfully immature and lacking in many regards. I have yet to leave the nest, and I suffer for it in some ways, but make up for it in others.

Everything is money and things and this is what I live by. I’m sickened by my own behavior and at the same time enamoured by it. I should have what I want and not be made to live without: this is my justification, though I know that nothing I buy and nothing I keep will ever silence the darkness inside of me. I am a here and now thing, and I can’t seem to shake that mentality even when it endangers me. I will own lavish things, do disgusting things, because it is all that I know and all that I need. I don’t know what else there is to have in all this. What is there but temporary relief? What is there but a few moments of enjoyment and days of resentment later?

The thought of ruining my chances makes me smile. There is nothing more satisfactory than shattering dreams, even if they must be my own. I have few others to pick at. They all know the game I play but they don’t run from it. I have made no denial of my apathy. I won’t. There is nothing to fear here but human consequences, and those are easy to avoid. I’m tired of the righteous sense of justice and the idiocy of common ideals; these things are nothing. I put no value in them and that makes them nothing. I refuse to believe, and then it is so. Nothing has to touch me if I don’t wish it. That is the one gift we are given.

A Place Like Forever

Sometimes I wake up confused. It’s dark, and I panic, thinking I’m late for work. Then I relax and fantasize briefly about calling in sick.

I hate my job. There’s no question about it. I am doing the exact last thing I ever wanted to do. I feel backed into a wall, and like any good animal, lashing out is becoming more and more frequent, whether it’s damage inflicted on myself, or others. Mostly I just seem to get bitter and curt, to the point where people ask me if I’m in a bad mood. What, you think? Really? I’m in a bad mood?

I don’t know how it could be anymore obvious that I’m on the very brink of what it is to be living, if you can even call this living. This is barely an existence at all. I don’t feel cheated, but ashamed, ashamed this is all I am and all I will ever be. I’m too weak, too crushed by expectations to budge and too much of a coward to face what’s coming for me. Every inaction on my part comes as a slap to the face, and I feel as though I am dragged through this whole ordeal, with no choices and no hope. I don’t care enough to change, and I don’t believe enough to keep going on.

I’m in physical pain from taking on too much and suffering mentally from enduring everything else. Let’s take someone who is socially insecure and put her in a job where all she does is communicate with people all day. Let’s have her take money at a register even though she feels too fucking incompetent to so much as count someone’s change. I’m deathly afraid I’m doing everything wrong. I hear myself over the speaker, echoing back and I cringe. I spend 6-9 hours in an absolute hell, where the only thing I can do is dig my nails into my palms, and rush into the back room before anyone sees that I am so uncomfortable I am on the verge of sobbing. I can barely take it. But I don’t know what else to do. The only way I will get out of this place is by rising above it. I’m an uneducated young person with no experience and no connections. I don’t even drive myself to work. The best I can expect to get is the position I’m being trained for. I fuck that up and I have to start all over. And fuck, starting over isn’t a goddamned option for me. I can’t. I won’t.

  What does it matter? It’s all over anyway.

Honestly, I hate honesty.

If I’m to be honest and all that, then I would say that I really don’t understand myself. I can’t say why I am this way; sure, I can guess, but it means very little when questions continue to go unanswered. What I do know is that I’m acting a lot more helpless than I am. Help is right there—I could say something to someone and maybe change things. It may not have worked with my parents, but it might with someone else, particularly a doctor.

I went to the doctor, I went to the doctor and lied to her face. And I got away with it, just like I always do, by avoiding, lying, and manipulating. People are so fucking easy, that sometimes  when I lie it feels positively effortless. I don’t know if that is a talent or if it just makes me even more of a disgusting individual. It’s ‘bad’, certainly, but it is a means to an end, which is all I’ve ever wanted.  

But my desire for help is not there. It’s as though I am somehow content to go on being miserable, as though I am standing here with an otherwise endless selection of options, yet time and time again making the wrong choice. I don’t seem to want to get better. I’m in love with my own pain, maybe. I don’t know. It’s hard for me to see my own motives when my emotions are so dulled. Am I waiting to become fed up, so that I will do something to myself? Or am I simply the sort of person that wants to stand back and let things burn for awhile before deciding to put out all the fires? I really don’t know, and I feel stupid for asking.

I should know, shouldn’t I? I should know why every day I throw this life away, emotionlessly. It is as meaningful to me as a disposable cup I toss into the garbage. I feel like I spend every second of my life trying to forget about my life. I’m always reading and daydreaming, trying to escape from this, trying to be free of this prison. I don’t like who I am, yet I would never try to be anyone else. I hate my unhappiness but I would not try for something better. Just looking at it that way makes it clear that there is no sense to this.

I’m nothing but a shadow of a person, content to be fleeting and unreal. And like all shadows, in the darkest of darkness, I am embraced and disappear. Someday I suspect that there will be no lines to seperate me from my evil; those last few struggling bonds of morality and sanity will be lifted. There will be nothing but fathomless black, numbness and emptiness and wholeness at the same time. Perhaps then I won’t feel like such a contradiction. Perhaps then I will never wish for happiness or the company of others again.

Ah, but that can’t be true, can it? Sounds too much like a dream.