Moonlight Sonata

The following is an email I sent to someone:

This is one of my favorite songs. I know you’ve heard it, but I don’t know if you’ve heard the it like this. I think it’s well over 15 minutes. I like to listen to it when I don’t feel well, and things aren’t going right, and this morning I was thinking about Richard, and I thought you might be too.

It’s basically life in 15 minutes—it has the very somber, famous beginning with these tinges of brightness dispersed in the melancholy. It progressively gets more sinister and hopeless. The first part can actually give me chills. It’s like saying, “this is it, this is the worst”, and those slight upbeats are symbolic of the fight for something else, anything else, no matter what form it comes in. Then suddenly, the melody takes and upturn, and it’s this sudden weak beam of hope, though the sadness still taints it—it’s not full and real yet, it’s only a shadow of hope, but it’s enough. And it soldiers on, over and over, getting beaten down by the realism of life and what it can mean.

Then there is happiness, insane happiness, like, “Yes! The storm has cleared! Life is so beautiful! How could I ever have been dragged down into such a dark pit of depression!” And it goes on and on for a bit, but never as long as you hope. It’s merely a blink in the timeline, so fleeting it is, but it’s amazing, it’s life giving, and you think to yourself that things can’t possibly take a downturn ever again, for you would never allow that to happen. But then your five minutes are up, and down the spiral you go.

It’s frantic and troubled with worries and regrets and by god, how could you have been so blind to the truth of life, the horror of it? It’s not depression, it’s not sadness, instead it is a sort of panic, the realization that no, you aren’t in control, are you? You can’t bend things to your will as you so desire. The happiness tries to flood you, but it’s blocked by doubts, and you feel crazy, because you want to be blissful again, ignorant of everything that life is, but you can’t. You just can’t. Everything is against you now and it’s so real and suffocating, and you fight it mercilessly—you won’t give up! No, it won’t take you down again, not into that place, that horrible place. So back and forth you war with it, over and over until you’re absolutely in its thrall, and you stab at it with the happiness you’ve always wanted, the happiness that is at your fingertips. “Take that, you evil coward!” you say to it. Suddenly it seems to be losing. You know your bliss is still far, but you believe you can win it now, you have a chance.

Then beautiful bliss—-but it’s even shorter than the first. So short it seems evil, unfair even, but you’ll take it. You’ll take it, no matter how short it is, and how hard you have to fight for it. Because deep down, you know life too is short, and this might be all you get.

And it is all you get: only glimpses, and the occasional burst of true euphoria. And in the end you realize that without the trials, without that insane, cruel downward spiral, life is meaningless. The fight is what makes you strong. And you accept it, you accept that you can only have what you work tirelessly for, what you bleed for. And somehow, even that, in all its frightening reality, is beautiful.


The answer

Why is it that what we least want to do is always the expected course of action? Is it purely human to force ourselves into what we hate, when what we desire is at our very fingertips? Is it the pain that makes these ‘responsibilities’ bearable? Is everything nothing more than masochism, where you give all and take almost nothing because the greedy would have you believe that is the way of the world? The takers are scorned, yet are they not the ones reaping the fruits of labor? If no one else will take it, does that not make it available to those who are not ashamed of their needs?

I feel as though everything is nothing more than a lie, and the people around do nothing but perpetuate it, as they too are blinded by what they desire but will never have the courage to take. It’s a promise, this perfection, but it will never be fulfilled. You have to keep the hamsters running on the wheel, feed them a diet of lusts and lies, and around and around they spin.

Too bad they won’t be going anywhere.

Breaking free

There are some people in the world who can’t keep their mouths shut. No matter how much they claim to care about you, they are forever willing to take a cheap shot simply because they can. It’s not all jealousy, but I realize now that some of it is.

Are you truly so jealous of the fact that I don’t have a job and you do? Do you really think being unemployed is the greatest thing that can happen to a person? You know, I’m sorry that things aren’t the way you want them to be, but it’s not my fault that you are utterly incapable of making your own decisions and that you’re in a living situation where your other party doesn’t want you to go without working. That, in other words, is your fucking problem, darling. I’m sorry that you feel the need to throw my unemployment in my face, but quite frankly, I don’t care what you think of me, if this is rooted in some kind of disgust. You know what bothered me? Not that you think less of me, but that you thought it was okay to voice your opinion in that ridiculous, underhanded way of yours, where it’s little more than a half-veiled insult. 

You don’t have any friends. Have you taken notice? You know, we laugh at you behind your back now, and I don’t feel an ounce of pity for you. You deserve every bad word against you, and I won’t bother to defend you any longer. What would be the point? You don’t have friends because you’re an insensitive cow. And honestly, if things weren’t the way they are now, I would scream it in your face. I’d cut you down without hesitation. You’re a sad woman on a sad little hill of pseudo superiority. You’ve chosen to isolate yourself, and the funniest part is that you don’t know you’ve done it. You’ve even managed to get under my skin enough for me to put you in the same category as my grandmother, who I absolutely fucking loathe. So congratulations. You now have no real friends, and you’re not even going to know it. 

I was going to write you a letter, but I’ve decided that that would be pointless, because I have a better idea. There are certain perks to being a Satanist, the first of which being that I believe in my own personal happiness before everyone else’s. I’m also extremely materialistic, which puts me in a difficult position given my joblessness—fortunately there is a solution. You. You want to buy me all that expensive shit and take me out to dinner every night that I see you? Okay. I’m hardly going to protest. Do what you want. It’s your money. It’s not my fault you’re entirely blind to just how much I am disgusted by you. Go ahead, spend piles of money on me. Do it. I’m not going to stop you. I consider it bullshit tax. You want to treat me like shit? Well I can do one up on you. Not only am I going to be sickly sweet for my own enjoyment, but I’m also going to take you for everything you’ve got.

You’ve been fucking with the wrong person. I gave you a chance because I know you’re a slow learner and have absolutely no grasp of human relationships. Psychologically, you’re a goddamn child. I was willing to put up with your stupidity in those matters, however, you’ve bored me. Your trivial opinions and irritating lack of pain tolerance have finally pitted me against you. You’re physically weak and pathetic, and you think that being thin translates to being beautiful. I’m sorry, but you’re too ugly on the inside to be anything else to me. And not only that, I know all your bullshit is a fucking sham. Actually, everybody does. And you know how I know?

I put things in your food.

That’s right. You’re lactose intolerant, right? I always put milk in mashed potatoes. Quite a lot, actually. In fact, I put it in most of the things I cook. I put it in all the things you eat. And half the shit you’ve been eating HAS FUCKING SOY IN IT. I thought you couldn’t eat soy? What about the bread? I thought you said you couldn’t have it? You realize all the shit I feed you has gluten, right? You know, for being a fake, you’re not very smart. I get it though. You told me without even realizing it. They paid attention to you as a child because you were always thin and ‘sickly’. Now you want that attention again, so you’ve starved yourself to a grey-skinned mess, and come up with all this bullshit about your diet. I get it. But if you wanted attention, don’t you think there would have been an easier way to go about it? This whole scheme is obviously a little too elaborate for you considering how you keep inadvertently tripping up. You haven’t complained of being sick, which you obviously would have had that ever been the result of our cooking. You can’t seem to not complain. About anything. Again, you’ve gone and dug your own hole. 

As it is, I realize that confronting you would just result in unnecessary awkwardness considering it is likely I would still have to be in contact with you from that point forward. You wouldn’t take it well. Liars never do. You’ll deny and point a finger. And why should I go to all that trouble when you have limitless potential? I’d be squandering a meal ticket. My pride generally gets in the way of me accepting things from others, but with you, I can’t see that being an issue anymore. I have no reason to feel as though I should pay you back. You’re offering your services, right? Okay. Then by all means, provide.

And your words of wisdom about my boyfriend, I have news for you: he can stand you even less than I can. So your pointless little comments about how it might ‘last a little while’ just make me laugh, because he certainly has lasted longer than you. You getting on your high horse is funny to me, because quite frankly, at 22 he has a better grasp on life than you will ever have, even at TWICE his age, as you are. Pathetic. You dare to claim my immaturity? Ha! I’ve made my own way, and what have you done? I live an adult life, and you still flounder about like a child with absolutely no understanding of anything besides your own painted world that keeps thinning out around you.

No, no, I’m not going to tell you. I’m going to keep things exactly as they are. You’ve made your choices. All the hell that comes raining down on your head is your own doing, and I am just along for the ride. I’m an opportunistic predator, and I see opportunity on my doorstep.

It’s funny, because I’m not going to have to do much of anything except bite my tongue and smile, while taking all that it is you have to offer. I look forward to our future together.    

Snowball’s chance in hell

So I finally got a call back. I was literally just woken up, said the wrong things. Now I’m sitting here stewing about it like an idiot. I called them back and left a message, not that it will do me any good—I’m sure they were typing out a decision as I was speaking. Usually I can manage not babbling or repeating myself, but fuck if I could do either of those. It’s just irritating that I’ve been doing paperwork for over a month and filling out all this shit to no avail. The universe always slaps me in the face, but fuck if I won’t take it like a man. I’m starting to think it’s bullshit anyway, and just another thing I’d use to avoid the inevitable. I didn’t even bother to do a ritual for it; I thought it was doomed from the start.

Okay, let’s be honest here (everyone put on their honesty ring!) I couldn’t be optimistic for anything. Optimism always ends up leaving people butthurt and defenseless, of which I will be neither. I think setting myself up to fail is much worse than a mild apathy toward every situation. Even though in a normal circumstance—without barriers of “I don’t care” dutifully blocking the way—I would be in a corner sobbing like a bitch. But what the fuck does it matter anyway? I said the wrong thing—someone is judging me accordingly. How is that anything new?

I hate this bullshit. I hate all of it. People can decide your fate for you, and that right there is a load of shit. I want to bulldoze my way through life. I’d like to make all their decisions for them. Playing God is not something any human being can do with grace, but I think I could manage to hate everyone and deal out bullshit decisions without much of a conscience. People deserve the worst that could possibly be dealt to them, even me. Fucking tear us down and start over, because this whole pathetic reliance on a justice that doesn’t exist and right and wrongs that are definable a thousand different ways, they aren’t doing any good. Where the fuck have we gotten? Nowhere. We’re still a bunch of idiot cave men wildly swinging a club to see what we can hit, which would be fine, so long as we didn’t go into it pretending to be righteous and and pure, and like we fucking give a shit. 

I don’t have to worry though. People dig their own graves, and sooner or later, somebody on high is gonna get a treatment like mine and they’re going to see the devil they’ve been harboring. Oh, they won’t see till way after the fact, but it’s fucking coming, you can rest assured. 

I had a therapist tell me that she’d never met a Satanist who was well-adjusted, like it meant I had some sort of debilitating disease that couldn’t be cured by her bullshit psychobabble nonsense. She said we were too self-destructive to lead a normal existence. This all being because we fuck without guilt and do what we please. Bitch, I took the same classes as you, I heard what they were preaching and saw it for what it was. You couldn’t accept reality. You WERE ON THE SAME PILLS I WAS ON. Clearly, there was a problem.

But I get now what I didn’t get before: I accept the fact that I have issues. I acknowledge that I have those issues because everything I look upon is carved from a fucking ‘reality’ that suits the weakest links in our society, people like the woman who sat there typing, in full-on denial of the fact that she was using medication to push down perfectly natural feelings of disgust and self-loathing. Be disgusted. Hate EVERYTHING. Hate everyone. Because you know what? That’s the only honest feeling you’ve ever had. Your pseudo empathy?  Your fucking piece of shit Mercedes Benz? That was bred into you. You’re a fucking breeder that does what you’re told. You fuck like they want you to fuck, you act like they want you to act, and what do you get out of it? A handful of the pills you tried to pawn off on me? I have news for you, something I neglected to mention to you. Those pills? They made me worse. You think I’m an asshole now? Well you should have met the basketcase I was when I was popping them like fucking Tums chewables. You can’t fix something that isn’t broken. The only reason there is something wrong with me, is because you people deemed it so. Who died and made you my god?

I am whatever it is I am. Maybe I have a brain tumor. Maybe I really am fucked up as all hell. But you aren’t going to be able to sideline me forever. I’m learning new things every day, while you sit there regressing, entirely unaware of how stagnant and tired your pathetic excuse for a world truly is. This place is going to fuck you up, and you know what? I look forward to watching.

knowledge to be gleaned.

Sometimes insights come at a most inopportune time. It’s like receiving a calling on Prozac. Is it real, is it me? You wonder. How could I be the same person in that moment as I am sober? We’re two different people, in truth, though you would not know it. Scary thought. Someone’s coming.

Panic. Except I can’t. I just cover his eyes. Can’t see. Like a fucking elephant in the room or something. Makes it awkward, makes it wrong. Is it wrong because I said so, or because they said so. Nothing makes sense, nothing is real. Too much poisons the brain. Can’t think straight. In an awful, horrible fog. Hurts. Make it stop. 

It doesn’t have to make sense. Because in the end it’s only me, and I’m the only one that matters.

Is it dirty that I didn’t wash my hands?


I don’t care anymore if everyone feels the need to figure out what I am. I think the main problem has been all along that I’ve never fit with the vision in my head. If you make a new one, does that technically mean you’re settling? We grow as we age and our vision must change, but I believe that at the core it will always be the same. If the core is stagnant, then that means everything else is just superficial. Those ideas, the changes to that perfect state of being? Nothing more than painting a wall or changing the carpet. It looks different, might even feel different, but the walls are still as solid and the same as they ever were.

I don’t think I’m faltering anymore. I’m getting there, somewhere. This place, it’s coming up on me fast. I feel so much like nothing matters. I’m not alone anymore and I think that has made all the difference in the world whether I choose to believe in it wholeheartedly or not. I am the same, but now I’m not so afraid. Consequences seem so unreal. I can be the devil I always wanted to be. I don’t think I’m happy; this is so different from that.

I believe I’ve been tricked into a false sense of security. I’m not better. I’m not thinking about dying everyday, but I sure as fuck think about hurting. It’s all so laughable now. I’m in my own hell, and I’m somehow enduring my misery because of this slow burn. I feel so ready to explode. It hurts so bad but it feels so good. God can’t know what this feels like. I curse the people who dared to speak of me.  I curse the ones who’ve made it so impossible to get here. But I’ve needed it, all of it. All of this suffering is leading to something. I can feel it in my bones.  

I’ve had my first taste of true, evil revenge and I want nothing more than to go on drowning in it. There is no substance and no amount of fucking that can equal or compare to this. I don’t know how I can be so fucking high and so damn low at the same time. This hazy landscape makes it so easy not to think. I don’t want to be a person of words anymore, I want to do things. I want to move beyond my own stiffling mediocrity. I want to tear off all the lies and show it all to their fucking judgmental faces so they might all sit back and stare at the beast they’ve harbored.

I’ve been here all along. And I’m so fucking patient. Oh god, you can’t even believe. I’ve been waiting. And, I swear to that abandoner, that hater of men, it’s coming. These years of hatred and self contempt have prepared me beyond reason. My disgust with myself is what gives me power. My complete acceptance of my uselessness and cowardice are what will make me strong. I am going to go so beyond what anyone could ever dream. And I will sweat and bleed and hate and scream. But I’ll get there. I’ll push harder than anyone has ever pushed and break myself into indescernable parts.  I’ll fracture like glass.

 I’ll be nothing but a thousand bleeding, angry shards.

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.