Semen is annoying
isn't it? Cutting yourself isn't the answer. Lying isn't a good
thing. I want to run away to Oklahoma. All these meaningless
things. All these meaningless things that inhabit our lives and
make not a damn bit of difference to the routine that we live
every fucking day, pausing only briefly to cry, or at least have
'tired eyes'. Goddamn. It's been a tough day. Nature is too green
today, there is too much of a warm smell. Associated fucking
memories. I'm just thankful I'm not living in a big city today:
the uncomfortable dusty sweat would push me over the edge and I'd
be left with a blood-stained pencil sharpener blade in my hand,
semen-encrusted underwear around my ankles, telling people I love
them and dreaming again and again of upstate New York in all its
non-existent glory. It may well be the story of how we begin to
remember, but sometimes remembering isn't a good thing.
Repression is what differentiates us from animals. There are
times when you must do what a monkey couldn't. There are times
when you must switch off the music, close the windows, put away
that emphasised book, snap the pencil, open the eyes, fart (hey,
when you've gotta you've gotta), and repress the pain and the
hurt.
Bunch of shit, huh?
Of course it's a bunch of shit. If you're hurting, you're
supposed to be hurting. There's not a single thing you can do
about it. Everything is futile. You have no control over
anything. You are controlled by what your brain decides you
should be feeling. No physical pain can ever come close. I speak
from somewhat limited experience on the physical side, but
somewhat extensive experience on the ethereal side, so perhaps
I'm just setting myself as an object of worship from all you
sick, twisted fucks out there. Perhaps I'm just lying as I always
do in order to gain your love and respect. I have an announcement
to make: my whole existence has been geared towards
seeking-attention at every turn. I'm not even going to begin to
list the things I've done in order to harvest your attention;
I'll just stick no.1 down, cos it's one that I've really carried
through with everyone I meet. I claim to be 20 when in fact I'm
30. In itself, not actually seeking attention until I tell you
that I did it, which is what I'm doing now. Give me attention.
Email me asking if I really am 30. Dance around wondering what
effect this has on any relationship between you and me. Wonder
when I'm telling the truth when I bounce back saying of course
I'm not 30, how could you be so gullible? Give me attention. I'll
tap dance for you. I'll suck your cock for $1000. Let me do
anything, just give me some attention.
I hate the
constantly mutating meanings as much as you do. It's a weakness I
have. It comes from being a child of the 60s (albeit by a matter
of two months). I justify it this way: you get more for your 40c
cash mawney. Sometimes you get mad anti-CIA fiction-laden
diatribes, sometimes you get social conscience rants because I
was too weak to do anything about something out in the real
world, and then there are the times like this when you get
introspective guilt-laden (although how it is guilt-laden is
perhaps beyond your understanding) tearful insights into who I
pretend to be. Shit, it all stems from fear of letting anyone see
who I really am, can't you see that? It's been a tough day.
Perhaps tomorrow will bring a cheery façade. Please don't
unsubscribe yet: I'll only go and kill myself if I receive the
kind of rejection I expect. That's not a threat. That's not a
promise. It's not even a fact. It's just an attention-seeking
sentence. I deserve everything I get.