On leaving myself
First off, I'm sorry. I am still a million angries. Yes, I want to die. Yes, you will have the chance to punch me in the face for it. For those of you who aren't interested, I don't blame you and I won't be offended if you stop here.
I'm too angry to apologize and too smart to think I shouldn't. I blow up and toss weak suicide threats out every few months. It's simple: I'm not made for this. People are flexible, with shared strengths and weaknesses. I am rigid and entirely unable to connect on a real level. I enable weakness in others because it's the only way I know to find common ground. Then you start talking and I shift back to irrelevancy -- back to anger.
There is always some depressed douche that wants to die. and I assumed it was a bunch of shit. Nothing is more irritating than being that douche, yet having no say in it. Sometimes shit is hard. Yeah, and when it isn't I still have nothing to look forward to. I just struggle. All the hoops are imaginary. I'm not working toward redemption because there isn't any. This anger is hollow, and it's all I have.
I won't hold it against you if this dramatic horseshit isn't worth your time. In fact, that would be about all I share with you. And that's the point. You don't want to hear it, and I don't want to live it.
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I tried to burn some bridges and throw up the 'Save Me' flag by telling you all to fuck off, but clearly I'm the one not holding shit together. I idolize people like Ferris Bueller and Ren MacCormack (Footloose) because they connect and bring levity to their surroundings -- I seek only to defile my surroundings. And that small, dying voice has to sit around and try to make sense of it. Normally, this would all be internalized, but I've made one too many death references to believe I'm in control of anything. One too many dramatic would-be exits. Still, "fuck you," says my persistent anger. he would burn every bridge -- inside and out. The anger makes me believe death is the only escape. It systematically destroyed joy. It overpowered contented understanding. It trampled what meditative peace I held as a boy. I'm sick of this fake sociopathic charm. pretending I give a shit about anything. I feel fucking nothing. I try to make everyone laugh, and beat myself up.
Standing here in all my grand naivety about to reap what I have sown + the rest of that song. A grand shift is in order. A loss of reservation. A gain in malice. it didn't work in highschool, but I was still hiding everything, then. At work I spend all day lying. Pretending I've eaten something, cooked blah blah, it was delicious. I don't eat, I just lie so you'll go the fuck away. I'm trained to be dismissive. Trained to despise interacting.
And the twisted shit that rolls around in my head: waking up from knife-fight dreams, the cries of dying animals, the tormenting neglect of phantom parents turning away from me. Beating innocents until I see a look in their eyes, and wake up crying. Rape, whether of myself or another. Fucking succubi that shit out of their vagina -- the list is endless. I don't even need to be asleep.
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Fuck you. I'm miserable while nice, I'm fake while funny, I'm suicidal while normal, and there aren't other roads to try. Fuck me, it seems. I can hide away until I get so lonely I scare you into looking at me for 10 minutes. I can make you feel guilty for not wanting me around -- like that wasn't in my fucking head. I'm a brain-damaged piece of shit that has no control over his intelligence. A fucking (self-)torture victim that can't shut off the visions without dragging you along. And not one fucking merit comes with nursing me. You just get a few silent months before imaginary shit hits a fan made out of chemical imbalance. A genius complex blaming detachment. I just can't admit to being human because I'm so fucking embarrassed about not being the best at everything. Living like a judgmental dickhead with repetitive wit is what's embarrassing. And whereas you all are bright enough to forgive these weaknesses, I'm not man enough to accept imperfection. And somehow through all of it I convinced myself that being a total fuckwad was perfection.
Yeah, shit sucks, and I have horror stories to fill my book. And then what happened? I was so broken that suicide became the only answer? I don't ever get to rekindle emotions, or have a goddamn dream? I don't get to love without making a girl up and pinning her invisible fucking qualities on a familiar face? Fuck you. Lame ass coward too afraid to lose something to ever grow feelings. That's already suicide. Grab a knife or grab your pants.
I believe I will have to lose my securities before I can lose my insecurities.
I'm too angry to apologize and too smart to think I shouldn't. I blow up and toss weak suicide threats out every few months. It's simple: I'm not made for this. People are flexible, with shared strengths and weaknesses. I am rigid and entirely unable to connect on a real level. I enable weakness in others because it's the only way I know to find common ground. Then you start talking and I shift back to irrelevancy -- back to anger.
There is always some depressed douche that wants to die. and I assumed it was a bunch of shit. Nothing is more irritating than being that douche, yet having no say in it. Sometimes shit is hard. Yeah, and when it isn't I still have nothing to look forward to. I just struggle. All the hoops are imaginary. I'm not working toward redemption because there isn't any. This anger is hollow, and it's all I have.
I won't hold it against you if this dramatic horseshit isn't worth your time. In fact, that would be about all I share with you. And that's the point. You don't want to hear it, and I don't want to live it.
----------------
I tried to burn some bridges and throw up the 'Save Me' flag by telling you all to fuck off, but clearly I'm the one not holding shit together. I idolize people like Ferris Bueller and Ren MacCormack (Footloose) because they connect and bring levity to their surroundings -- I seek only to defile my surroundings. And that small, dying voice has to sit around and try to make sense of it. Normally, this would all be internalized, but I've made one too many death references to believe I'm in control of anything. One too many dramatic would-be exits. Still, "fuck you," says my persistent anger. he would burn every bridge -- inside and out. The anger makes me believe death is the only escape. It systematically destroyed joy. It overpowered contented understanding. It trampled what meditative peace I held as a boy. I'm sick of this fake sociopathic charm. pretending I give a shit about anything. I feel fucking nothing. I try to make everyone laugh, and beat myself up.
Standing here in all my grand naivety about to reap what I have sown + the rest of that song. A grand shift is in order. A loss of reservation. A gain in malice. it didn't work in highschool, but I was still hiding everything, then. At work I spend all day lying. Pretending I've eaten something, cooked blah blah, it was delicious. I don't eat, I just lie so you'll go the fuck away. I'm trained to be dismissive. Trained to despise interacting.
And the twisted shit that rolls around in my head: waking up from knife-fight dreams, the cries of dying animals, the tormenting neglect of phantom parents turning away from me. Beating innocents until I see a look in their eyes, and wake up crying. Rape, whether of myself or another. Fucking succubi that shit out of their vagina -- the list is endless. I don't even need to be asleep.
------------------
Fuck you. I'm miserable while nice, I'm fake while funny, I'm suicidal while normal, and there aren't other roads to try. Fuck me, it seems. I can hide away until I get so lonely I scare you into looking at me for 10 minutes. I can make you feel guilty for not wanting me around -- like that wasn't in my fucking head. I'm a brain-damaged piece of shit that has no control over his intelligence. A fucking (self-)torture victim that can't shut off the visions without dragging you along. And not one fucking merit comes with nursing me. You just get a few silent months before imaginary shit hits a fan made out of chemical imbalance. A genius complex blaming detachment. I just can't admit to being human because I'm so fucking embarrassed about not being the best at everything. Living like a judgmental dickhead with repetitive wit is what's embarrassing. And whereas you all are bright enough to forgive these weaknesses, I'm not man enough to accept imperfection. And somehow through all of it I convinced myself that being a total fuckwad was perfection.
Yeah, shit sucks, and I have horror stories to fill my book. And then what happened? I was so broken that suicide became the only answer? I don't ever get to rekindle emotions, or have a goddamn dream? I don't get to love without making a girl up and pinning her invisible fucking qualities on a familiar face? Fuck you. Lame ass coward too afraid to lose something to ever grow feelings. That's already suicide. Grab a knife or grab your pants.
I believe I will have to lose my securities before I can lose my insecurities.