Days like these I want to dye my hair purple, get a half sleeve tattoo and say, “fuck you.”
I’ll do it eventually. You’ll see.
Not that you care.
Sometimes I don’t care. I laugh when it’s not funny.
I am angry.
At myself. At you. At the world.
I wish I wasn’t an enemy to myself 80% of the time.
My inner critic is off the charts. Stabbing me left and right.
Leaving me a bloody, wounded child.
That’s me being dramatic.
What in the living fuck do I have to complain about anyway?
There are people starving and going through real shit – and here I am, sitting in the comfort of my home sipping a glass of wine complaining about why I feel life has been a little less than kind to me.
What a joke.
I’ve been using the word “whatever” a lot in my writing lately.
Whatever that means.
I’ve come a long way in some ways.
I am proud of myself.
I love myself – sometimes.
I hate myself – most times.
It’s a terrible thing, you know? When you live as your own enemy.
I miss you. And you’re probably okay without me.
I’m okay without you too. But it was nice seeing your name pop up on my phone making me believe you cared.
I’ll just listen to sappy music and sip more wine until you finally fade away.
I don’t understand myself.
I hate what I’m doing but I keep doing it. Because the pain of staying hasn’t yet grown stronger than the pain of leaving…perhaps? That’s what they say, anyway.
I want flat abs, but I eat fried food and chocolate.
I often behave contrary to the results I want.
I get possessed by a side of myself that despite knowing better acts against good sense. Then I beat myself up about it.
I beat on myself all the time.
I’m always waiting outside for me at 3 o’clock. With a bat. And a taser. And 5 other friends.
I’ve been working on it, though.
I want to say more of what’s on my mind.
Be raw. Genuine.
Say fuck off more often to the people I just don’t care about.
But it’ll probably get me fired. Or excommunicated. Burned at the stake. Or all of the above.
So many of us are so goddamn sensitive.
Ya bunch of sissies.
Myself included sometimes.
Can’t handle an ounce of criticism and I’m all ready to jump off a cliff.
In the ever lasting words of Red Forman…
I give too many fucks.
I need to retract about 849598 fucks. Maybe that’ll stabilize me to the point of giving just enough fucks to not be too nice or too mean.
I used to think I was a good writer.
Now I sound like an idiot.
Whatever happened to the poetic side of me?
I haven’t written a poem in a while.
I like country music.
I wonder if this is really good-bye.
Why is there a tiny, little piece of me that thinks otherwise?
I don’t care.
I’ve listened to “Bored” by Billie Elish more times than I can count. On repeat.
I’ve listened to other songs too. And I’ve cried.
I cried because of you.
I cried because of my dissatisfaction with life.
I bought a pack of cigarettes.
I don’t consider myself a smoker.
But every now and then I will buy a pack.
There’s certainly a history of addiction in my family.
And a pervasive pattern of separation.
Guess I’m doomed.
I want to flow with the wind.
Be one with the stars.
Melt into the nothing.
There are moments where I am overtaken by bliss.
Everything is so perfect.
Everything is fucking temporary.
Like your morning embrace.
And the fleeting, gentle touch of your lips against mine.
I used to imagine going back in time quite often.
Now I find myself more intrigued with the future.
If I ever get cancer, I will not treat it. I’ll just watch myself die.
Moods are so transient.
I go from one extreme to another.
Then I swim in the in betweens.
I am all over.
How can I make long lasting decisions when my moods are not long lasting and ever changing?
666 is (was) the word count as I start this sentence.
I don’t know where I stand on the subject of God anymore.
I have a very complex idea about it all.
New year, new me, eh?
They annoy me.
Sometimes they speak volumes.
I need to be more open minded.
There are still things that bother me.
I think that if something is bothering me than I have not yet come to understand it. If I truly understand something, it shouldn’t bother me, unless I am being preferential.
I think it’s okay to have preferences, though. As long as we’re not spreading hate.
I prefer chocolate over vanilla ice cream. But I don’t have to spread hate against vanilla.
I also think it’s okay to spread hate – as long as we are in a simulated reality program that isn’t ultimately real and we are just having the experience of hate but not spreading hate in reality.
There’s more I wish to say.
But at the same time I am over it.
I want to be more okay with myself.
With who I am, what I believe and what I like.
I don’t want to dim myself because of you.
Not in a mean way.
I am not a fixed being.
I am fluid.
I don’t care.
I can’t define myself or my feelings.
Every moment is too different from the next to say I am the same.
I wish I could pause the perfect frame.
At least the perfect frame in my universe while at the same time giving you space to define what’s perfect for your own goddamn self.
Would I want to stay forever or leave?
What even is forever?
Too many questions with no answers.
It seems like life is about loss.
You lose everything in the end.
But what is the end?
The actual end.
Should I go back and make edits to this or leave it raw and completely vomited as is?
I’ll probably leave it.
(I’ve made some edits)
In a universe that appears to be so big, all of this is practically irrelevant.
I fight myself on my thoughts regarding relevancy and relativity. And it annoys me. Because it’s like one giant god forsaken Rubik’s cube that I can’t ever put together.
So I end up throwing it in a corner in a fit of rage.
Then I’ll pick it up again 2 months later after a drunken night in the city.
Right now I am annoyed.
And a little excited.
And a little I’m missing you.
And a little okay.
Quite the motha fuckin’ soup.
How long have I rambled for?
Probably more than I’ll ever be proud of.
This is probably one of those posts I’ll scroll through and pretend it doesn’t exist because sometimes I become embarrassed of myself.
Probably because somewhere along the way I learned that it wasn’t okay to be me.
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.
Sometimes I want to SCREAM.
Scream so loud and pull my hair.
I’ve done it before.
I’ve done a lot before.
Though at the end of the day, I think I’m a pretty good person.
Like I wouldn’t be able to throw you in a fire knowing full well that I could when it’s all said and done type person.
Because I want to be perceived as good?
That’s another long topic I don’t care to elaborate on right now.
But my inclination is to think that it’s just fucking stupid to hurt others for my own gain. My inclination is to want to be just fucking dandy without anything or anyone having to do or be anything for my pleasure. I am my own pleasure.
Is that selfish?
I don’t fucking know.
Dammed if you do, dammed if you don’t.
There’s no winning.
Maybe I’m just love sick.
Am I craving your love or my own?
It’s hard to live dependent on externals.
I wouldn’t want to be alone.
I think it’d be nice to sleep hugging each other forever.
Dreaming all sorts of dreams yet knowing we are in actuality just eternally safe in each other’s arms.
But fuck it, if I was alone it’d at least be nice to be my own friend.
Kind of like a kid with an imaginary buddy, ya know?
I think I am officially done elaborating on anything any further at this time.
If you’ve read this far, wow, I’m impressed.
I can barely stomach it myself.
But then again I’m probably my biggest hater.
Isn’t that weird?
When did I learn to be mean to my own self? Probably because of you.
Probably. But who knows?
I think I’ll officially end with, “whatever.”
Because really, fuck it.