I don’t know why you needed my twenty dollars, but I can only hope that you have more cash than just what you stole from me. Hopefully, you’ll have enough to buy a lot of drugs. Not weed, but maybe like crack or heroin or meth. I want you to have my money if that’s the case. I want you to take it and buy more drugs than you ever have before and have the best time in your apartment shooting up, or smoking or snorting whatever you like to do. I want you to have such a good time that you overdose and die slowly and soundlessly, alone in your apartment or dumpster or cardboard box. I can only wish that your body just lies there for weeks on end as natural decay chips away at the now unrecognizable, once living, consortium of disease, rot and rat feed that is the husk of yourself. Hopefully, when some authority inevitably shows up to investigate the noxious putridity and they discover it’s source, you are still somewhat recognizable. That way, they can call whatever family or loved ones you have to come and identify the body. Maybe you weren’t that close, but I want them while looking at the effluvious grotesquerie of a human your body has become, to realize how poorly they’ve treated you or how negligent they’ve been to your needs for you to end up this way. They become overwrought with grief and self pity. They are unable to reconcile their behavior or lack there of with a good and righteous human being. For the first time in their unvirtuous lives, this matters to them. They’ve seen now, up close, the destruction that they, and lifestyles like theirs, have begot. They become deeply disconcerted by the ramifications of their life, immensely disturbed by the existential nightmare resulting from this sight. Eventually the pain is too much. One night, they go home and in a final act of sorrow, saw into their neck with a kitchen knife confessing secret apologies to you with their last gasps of life. In this way ending the only thing you actually cared about while alive yourself, other than doing drugs and stealing my fucking money you goddamn piece of shit give me back my twenty dollars I was going to buy some really dope socks.
My chest hurts. It burns, but it hurts too. Only the left side. I can’t tell if I’m imagining it. I remember a conversation I had earlier in the day when I jokingly said that I don’t fear death. I do, but I’m obscenely curious of it. I keep pushing, my chest shrinks and tightens as my arms close to each other and it feels like my heart is pressed against my skin. I can feel the beating in my wrists and I get light headed. I want to see what happens. I finish the movement let my arms relax and then…nothing. The pain grows faint. I check my phone. I feel the same. I’ve discovered no mystery, hadn’t approached any brink. Like a child dipping his toe into a puddle having experienced no ocean. I wonder if my musings, even though they are self targeting, are cliche so they can be understood. I wonder what that means. I heard someone say that we spend our whole lives holding back and I wonder what that means if I’m pressing forward. Confused and lost in a self imposed existential black hole rife with irrelevant ideas that have no unique qualities. Thought before a million times by a billion people. Written just this way in this manner, with this tone. I feel it dripping in the back of my head. Pooling liquefaction of creativity and design. I consume endlessly in an effort to distract and lose more and more in doing so. My eyes refuse to focus and my gaze spins out on the screen. I can scream but I choose not to.
My hands are knots I can’t undo. It feels like the air is compressing only directly on top of me. It seems self involved to worry why no one else has noticed but I do that too. I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach hadn’t rumbled and if it had I will deny it. I got a little lost and I drank a lot of water which can usually makes you ignorant to the hunger. The quivering spread from my stomach into my blood stream and felt as if it had taken all the blood back to the stomach again. It rose, I fought it. It rose again, I shifted in my seat. The pressure became a vacuum and I was gasping in my head. I flushed and shifted once more. The breeze blew and all of a sudden I was okay. I drank more water.
I wasn’t very nervous. I had convinced myself not to be. It was easy enough. I didn’t strain for it, concerned it would have the opposite effect. I stopped being able to tell long ago where the affectation began and stopped. At some point you have to become a thing weather you like it or choose to. None of it mattered though because I was only there. Usually I multitask but it felt good to be somewhere. I held onto it, to the point of maybe missing decisions. There are always more to be made though, that I’ve found out.
But it usually doesn’t. Most of the time the only thing that happens on Halloween are the same things that happen to you on any other weekend. Sure, the slut that rejects you might have edged slightly closer to the line separating sexy and public indecency, but she rejects you all the same. Could it have been that your “Gerard Butler in the upcoming film ‘Chasing Mavericks’” costume was hastily constructed? No, you’ve had that wet suit and novelty sized surfing board (easy to carry, plus small things are hilarious [Note to self: While getting inquiries about surfing board, make joke about a dog surfing. Girls love animals].) for months.
No, it’s just that Halloween is just another day. Here is the main problem with made up holidays: they are made up. Also non made up holidays don’t exist because think about it. So basically all holidays suck. You know what is cooler? Regular ass days. Regular days if you saw somebody dressed up like Edward Scissor hands you would be all like like, “Woah what a fucking wackado in that johnny depp wig”, and it would be magical and you would tell your friends about it and you would laugh and laugh. What if on a regular day people just came up to you and said Merry Christmas and gave you presents that were nicely wrapped? What if you got flowers on some random Tuesday that said I love you from that cute accounting major you sat next to in freshman comp but decided she would be way too into you if you guys boned so you were like whatever she isn’t even that hot, it’s not worth it but then when you finished the class you were like what an idiot I totally should have just done it and then whatever?
There are no surprises anymore. All this shit is the same. Everyone just dresses in a costume for Halloween and gets drunk. We should do something new. Or at least do it on a new day. Why do we have to keep pretending like this is fun?
Random days are better than holidays because surprise is the greatest holiday that exists. I propose a surprise day instead of any other holidays. Surprise day is to be held on some random day of the year and announced by a mystery method every year or maybe some people don’t even know about it and it isn’t announced at all, that would be even more surprising Or maybe it already exists and you don’t even know about it because wouldn’t that surprise you!
I don’t remember where I was going but I know that I don’t have a Halloween costume this year so this is what I did instead of go get drunk and pretend to have fun at a dumb party where I’m supposed to pretend like I want to have sex with the girl in the slutty Minnie Mouse costume just because her exposed flesh to costume ratio is like 8:1.
My tea is getting cold. That’s not a metaphor, adding an ice cube would not effect temperature at this point. But it’s also a metaphor. Because I’ve been out of school now for about a long time. That means that if I ever had aspirations of having a normal life where I do a career for 30 years, breakdown, leave my wife and kids and marry a young Filipina, my clock is ticking. So as my tea cools I take the bag out because I’m not hipster enough to have a loose leaf tea pot (it’s in the mail, 3 day delivery is a lie). I look at it, staring into what made my life what it is and looking back on why I couldn’t be a normal boring person who likes regular things and doesn’t feel compelled to write inane blog posts that echo endless into space.
One important thing to consider when you’re caught in a retrospection loop is to remember that you aren’t time traveling. This seems an obvious consideration but it deserves more commitment than a one off done before joke. You can’t actually change any of the events in your past, so why bother thinking what else you could have done? Instead try and examine what you did do, why and what you can do now. Much more constructive and helpful for keeping you away from wallowing in sadness. Helpful, not full proof. When you do inevitably think back to some break up, or death or missed opportunity just hit yourself. Really hard in the ribs with a closed fist should do it but if you a half a brick or the handle of a croquet mallet handy, go for it. This serves to remind you that shut up you big pussy, you’re still alive.
Another mindful tip should be that, as previously stated, you are still alive. So while all this reminiscing might be good for a little self pity and justification, you have current obligations and responsibilities that require your attendance. Your step-dad’s cat isn’t going to brush itself. And boy isn’t that thing hairy! Geez just the other day it sha
Number 3 is that you should never make things go on longer than they need to. Make it snappy. Don’t dwell on the past, especially not one event or aspect. That’s how people get sad and have to take a bunch of meds that your insurance doesn’t cover because it was technically a pre-existing condition which you’re not sure how they can prove but you figure your doctor knows better than you do so you just go with it. It’s important to just go with it to. So that’s number 4. Unless by practicing number 4 you are acting counter intuitively to number 3. Man I have a lot of respect for those laws of robotics now.
So that’s it for today, don’t forget to thumbs up, five star, rate, comment, subscribe, tweet, like, +1, pin and tumble this to all of the people who you added on social networks even though you don’t really care what they have to say because you only know them from highschool and you’re pretty sure you didn’t actually have any classes together. In fact, did she even go to your high school? Well, when you look it up she does. And she does look familiar. Hmmm, she’s mutual friends with Eric? How does he know her? I don’t ever remember him mentioning her before. Fuck it, lets just creep on her pictures. Oh wow, that looks like a fun party at the beach. Ohhh! A fire on the beach, it’s just like in that every Jack Johnson song. Except banana pancakes. OMG I totes know what I’m making for breakfast tomorrow.
“The only thing to fear is fear itself.” I don’t know what dumb idiot said this but it’s stupid and I’ll tell you why: the world is a trouser defecatingly terrifying place. Think about spiders and serial killers and bad drivers and natural disasters and loose gravel and itchy leaves and fire. Those things are pretty bad when you have to deal with them. And that’s only what? Like ten? I’m not going to go back and count because if I did I might miss whatever thing I am justifiably scared of probably sneaking up on me right now.
Okay. I’m back. Just had to check the corners of my room. The point is, there are tons of things you should be afraid of and anyone who tells you otherwise is feeding you a load of shit so immediately disregard them. Also, don’t let people feed you things that aren’t food. It’s not sanitary and it can’t be helping your digestion. Personally, I’m afraid of almost anything. Not everything, that’s pretty dumb you moron. What was your score in reading comprehension on those standardized tests, like 80%?! They are rigged! Everyone gets a 97 percentile okay, you aren’t smart. And why are you using metrics used in high school as a determinate of your current intelligence? Did you assume everyone else is as stagnant as you and bullshitted their way through college? God you are the worst.
You can be afraid of anything (Read: Not everything, you dummy. You mix up invincible and invulnerable too don’t you, god…no, I’m going to move on) and no one can call you out though. In the right context a pen can be as bad as a un-photogenic picture or a Facebook status someone made for you admitting you’re gay (we already knew). Granted these are all dumb things but the fact you’re a shallow minded Cro-Magnon should be enough of a context to convince everyone that those are okay things to be afraid of. Also it’s pretty impressive a prehistoric human can A) both understand the concept and can use the internet and B) is somehow still around and alive today. You look much younger in person than as those skeletons at museums.
I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m smart enough to realize not everything is scary but not enough to decipher what is what. That and I might be a paranoid schizophrenic. I don’t really like to entertain that notion though because if the FBI hears me thinking that they might finally end my program and take me back in on account of compromising the mission so secret they didn’t tell me about it. I digress, frequently and on purpose actually. It wasn’t a mistake. You’re reading my blog I don’t have to make poignant bookends for you, you entitled brat.
Tune in next time where I’ll stray from the topic of: Are the sounds in your music hypnotizing you into spelling words wrong? The answer will be no, you are lazy and can’t bother to right click the words with red squiggly underneath them, but tune in just the same.
Every episode of this show I watch ends with my face contorted into what I envision as a look that is the boiled down essence of abject horror. I should be clear, I am pretty confident that this is not the intention of the show despite having been told by others that I am supposed to hate every second of the show and that this is some kind of hipster irony thing. I will grant that the show is compelling, that I keep watching it. I’m also liable to strain my head at car crashes and look up pictures of men who’ve had their faces eaten off so I struggle to find that as a compliment. That is, unless the only goal of the creator is ratings. I don’t feel that to be the case though. The entire feeling of the show is that she should be celebrated for her witty and unconventional humor and style. Even in the show itself it feels like every episode is a festival to her “bucking” something or challenging some notion or concept I’m supposed to have. This becomes increasingly infuriating because I don’t have those. It’s like the show is constantly throwing in my face that I don’t understand New York hipster underground ironic subculture or something and I’m just like, “Yeah no shit, don’t want to, never claimed to”.
I mean, I really thought I hated people before. Before, I hated regular people. People with jobs and career goals and family plans and shit. Now I hate the other people just as much. I used to begrudgingly respect aspiring artists and other such late 20 do-nothings for at least trying something different even if that alternative was nothing. I hate this goddamn show for making me hate more things. Did it think that was something I needed? I hate everything you fucking twat! I had it covered. In fact, my whole day was already allocated to trying to spread evenly my attentions to hating things. Now it’s like I have to pencil in one more and my book is full. I’ve already written all the margins in.
I do have to commend her for making all these characters feel real though. I definitely hate people and I hate her show and I hate her characters. Very believable when they all have so much in common.