My Life
You know, there are some days, and some times, like right now, where I look outside and realize how depressed this all makes me. The weather is too cold to taste good on the tongue, the sun is out at all the wrong times, and it's pale. I don't mean snow, just pale. And then I walk back inside, even though I'm hungry, and theres a store right down the street. I don't know, it's not that cold, its just depressing. So I come inside and look around, and it's really not all that bad around here. I mean, someone lived here not too long ago, and cleaned the place before they left. It's really just me here now, and so I come inside and open up the refrigerator and theres two bottles of wine. For a second I consider drinking them, all of them, when I ask myself, how could somebody drink something so disgusting? Then I realized it was probably because they were depressed and didn't care, it made it all go away. So I opened up the refrigerator. And closed it. And opened it. And closed it. And finally I said this is enought and I opened the refrigerator one last time. And closed it one last time. Thought about opening it again for laughs, but no, it would be a waste, all I would do is close it again. Then I realized I was assuming negative (or positive) things about myself, but mainly that I was lazy and indecisive. I'm not either of those though, except for when it matters. But that's another story for another place. So I went and picked up some instruments and started playing some things, and it made me feel good about being alive. I know it's corny but for ONCE I LOOKED at my hand, and didn't just want to kill it. And I don't mean just chop it off, I mean take the two most important things to my ability and grind them in a belt sander so I could watch them slowly disappear, so that I could see the blood spurt everywhere, so I could pick up a vein and squeeze it in my fingers, so I could watch the bone grind away as the pain turned into a numbing sensation before I passed out. So I wouldn't have to disown them. So I wouldn't have to deal with the pain of my hands being dead and useless. So I wouldn't be able to tell people that the things in this world that could help me bring happiness to my life were buried in my backyard. Why would I want to do this to my hands anyway? Doesn't really make much sense, does it. I mean, they make me useful. So why? Somewhere in my head I must not think I'm useful or something like that. And if I'm not useful, I can at least take my anger out on my hands. You know, there's not much you can take your anger out on in this world. Nothing's satisfying. I mean, it's not like I want to kill (which I do) to be satisfied. I don't need blood and guts and gore and veins in between my teeth to be satisfied. But I can't just walk up to somebody and beat the living daylights out of them while shouting some obnoxious war cry like "Mercit Caghut Tahughyah" or "FREEDOM!!!"or"FOR HONOR" either, so if you catch my drift, there's not a whole hell of a lot to take my anger out on. So I, like many others, push it away. I do it in a solely unique fashoin. I just don't let it in at all. I treat it like an Irishman looking for a job in the 1870's. And that's that, right? Yep. It also treats me like an Irishman in the 1870's who's looking for a job and can't find one. So that's where I'm at today. I'm hiding from an Irishman in the 1870's who can't find a job. ... I mean my anger. So now what? Time to find a belt sander, I mean a different solution. Not a belt sander. No belt sanders. (I should go join the BSA...I don't mean Boy Scouts of America (did that, it didn't help, but I do love to be in nature)...Neither do I mean BullShitters Anonymous, but I might need to...I mean Belt Sanders Anonymous!) So there. No belt sanders? Then what the hell do I do? Face the problem right? Sounds easy enough. Too bad the problem DOESN'T HAVE A FACE! I don't know whether I'm looking at it's head or it's ass or something else entirely. So for now what do I do? Heh. Yeah. I'll just be in my imagination, tell me when it's over. You know, Lala land? Whereever you go in the middle of class when the teacher ignorantly drones on in this lecture that's boring as hell. I like it there. It's an escape. It's also another story for another time. It is quite elaborate though. I'd like to make a book out of it, but I seem to be pretty useless and don't have any discipline. And now were back to why I'm here, saying this to whoever gave enough of a damn about me to read it (are we placing bets, 'cause my money's on zero). At the moment my playing music is the only thing that keeps running strands across the gorge so I don't fall. And I look around, by the way, and there's a lot of people here with their steel girders or fiberglass girders or a span made of some other fake material. You don't see many stone or wood bridges anymore. Then again, with all this intelligence I have, I'm surrounded by people and their stone bridges, so why can't I build one. Anyway, I then stopped playing for a while. Why, I guess I glanced outside. Pale, everywhere. Gray, Gray, Gray. If I had that damn belt sander, I might see some fuckin' color around here. So anyway I was going to go to my room, but I got lost in thought again and ended up being upstairs somehow. What a mess. Like me, I'm a mess. Since I'm up there, I poked around a bit, looked through some old stuff of mine. There's a couple of books up there that my mom never read, but I read on a boring day once. I don't read much anymore either. And then I saw some of my dad's old stuff up there. It pissed me off. All I have of his from when he was alive was a couple of amp switchers for old Peavey amplifiers. Which I don't have, by the way. There's an old pen set up there that doesn't work either. He makes me angry. He had a lot of great things when he died, like a Gibson Les Paul, a couple of other guitars, a RECORDING STUDIO, some priceless music related jewelery he recieved from some really famous people, you know, odds and ends. Nothing worth giving his kids. That's why he gave it all to the tramp he cheated on my mom with. Rich little whore too. So everybody fought against him. Since he didn't exactly own 100% of the recording studio, he couldn't give it to her, and it was actually taken from him because he tried to anyway. By a good friend of my family's who I'm still in touch with. He might be up this weekend. So then I stumble across some old stuff from when I was little. I hated life back then. I almost died six times. I tried to kill myself five times. I only have told one person this. Now I'll get sent to the shrink. That's all right. I'll just sing a bar of Alice's Restaurant and he'll think I'm really sick and he won't see me. So I'm looking at these things and I wonder why everyone hated me so much. (And for that matter why there are so many people now who hate me without knowing me.) But it was then (and this made today get much more enjoyable in it's pale way) that I realized that some *cough*most*cough* people are heartless, and I could and should beat the living daylights out of them while shouting an obnoxious warcry. ... I mean I should ignore it or deal with it. But then they turn into Irishmen from the 1870's ... I mean anger. So then what, talk to people about it? This Livejournal BS that goes on every day? Nah, not for me, never had been, never will be. I think Livejournal is better as either a way to catch up with people or just a way to get a hold of the world and share yourself. I'm not into the whole talking about people and telling them about myself, not my day to day. I prefer to tell them myself. Just myself. And that's what I'm doing. I still have a problem though. and I can't find just One Person to share this stuff with, I'm still not into that. I'm insane though, and nobody cares an bout me, right. Nobody want's to read Myself. Why? I dunno, maybe I'm just ugly and smell funny. But I am insane. If I'm a psycho, I had better start acting like one. No, I'm not going to kill everyone (it would be fun though). I was just thinking turn schitzophrenic. Talk to people who aren't there. Maybe have a split personality so I don't remember myself doing it. ... Maybe not. But the whole talking to people when they're not there. Or talking to people from another time. Like little me. I could beat the living daylights out of him for fun. Right. So I started going insane,right there. Perhaps, on looking back on it, that may have been something I shouldn't have turned away from to unlock my personal demons. But I did. Hey, it was driving me insane, what else could you. So I came back downstairs. It was pale. I decided to go on the computer. I saw that I had winamp open, so I hit play. You know, Jack Black had taught me how to do a cock pushup at least twenty seven and a half times before, so I opted for the toad. and I heard, after about a minute, "...you can show me your home. Not the place where you live, but the place where you belong." (Just in case there are any toad fans out there that was from "Something to Say".) I realized that if I had a place where I belonged, I haven't been there in a while. It's not in my imagination, I live in the 20th century. So where? Not my house. Out in Nature, in the woods. I haven't done anything like that in a long time. when I can drive, I want to do that so bad. So I haven't been where I belong in so long it hurts now. It really hurts now. I wonder why I think about these things, I have so much I should be doing, like getting food, or starting homework. I am a procrastinator. I need to learn some discipline. I need a lot. think about how much it costs to feed yourself every day. You need so much just to stay alive it's ridiculous. There's another reason to kill myself. It just keeps on buildlng. I just realized it's been a year since I started playing DDR with Barry. He sucked, but those were good times. Everything is so different, nothing mattered as much last year, it was easy. Now, as if this year wasn't hard enough, my mind had to finally complete the vicious cycle which led it to this breakdown as well. And I really can't talk to anyone about it because they try to group my problem with somebody elses, make it a normal problem. Hah. I hate that, it just shows that people don't care about me, or you, or anyone except themselves. They don't want to deal with your problem, they don't want to help you, they just want to get you and your problem out of their hair as quickly as possible. And for any other problem that would be fine. But when THAT is the PROBLEM ITSELF it is NO LONGER A VIABLE SOLUTION. This time you can't fight fire with fire. But I would like some water, thanks. So I have a problem that nobody can help me with because nobody cares enough to help. And I don't mean care like you get the sad feeling you get when you watch a soap opera. I don't even mean caring enough to give somebody some money so they can eat. I mean sticking a small tube into your artery and into mine so I have enough blood to live while I'm at risk of bleeding out. I mean that kind of help. I mean taking a bullet kind of help. And not the foolish kind, where you then talk and bs and brag about having taken a bullet for your best friend. I mean taking a bullet, keeping yourself calculated to take the bullet in a nonlethal spot, cleaning up the mess, and staunching the hemorrhage on his leg get the two of you out of there and never talking about it again. I need that kind of help. I need help from a good friend who bothered to read this and understands that I don't have the solution, so if your going to help me, the best place to start might be by finding your own and not letting anyone else in on this. Maybe read up on some psychiatry. I just don't want to be asked a lot of questions. Limit yourself, because you don't need to know the story, only the meaning. Or you could just not help, leave me be to find my own solutions, and if you read this, pretend you didn't. This is what ten minutes of my life is like, imagine the rest of it.