46 years later: I am alive, and I feel emo
I'm not sure what to say at this point other than I feel like an ass. I'm not sure where this particularly feeling of self-loathing came from, but I hate myself. For the first time in what seems like ages, I feel compelled to write how I feel about people, but that --in my opinion, but perhaps I'm wrong -- would be uncharacteristic of me.
I like to sugarcoat things. Rather than stir trouble, which I could, or anything, I feel content to describe how I feel. At this moment, I feel vapid, empty, a worthless cog. I'm not sure where any of it is coming this time around, to be perfectly honest. My only thoughts are that it could be residuals from the stuff I've smoked lately. But, I could be wrong.
I'm so often wrong about so many things. But I know I'm not wrong when I say I have blood on my hands. I am a guilty human being. I have sinned, and committed numerous errors, most of them purposefully. Right now, I hate myself and nearly every bit of my existence.
I hate the people I know. I hate the falsities I've let take over my life. My gambling problem. My weight problem. My poor hygiene. Every single fiber of my existence is a fraud. And I think it is the same for you, too. Certainly our problems are different manifestations of different, equally complex problems, but nonetheless they represent how horrid and wretched we've allowed ourselves to become.
Why don't you have a problem with that? Why is your existence better than mine? Or, rather, why have I created that illusion? I see you, every bit as miserable as I am. Every bit as fake, as hollow, as worthless.
Yes, I went to college and I have a degree. Yes, I have fairly healthy relationships with the people I love. It is also true, that with hard work and determination, I can make my goals come true. But to what end?
At the end of the day, we're all just worthless viruses, brought forth because we are hardwired to believe that we need to create more of ourselves. But I know you don't buy that. You don't buy the god myth. And some of you, yes, you, don't buy the dietary myths that meat and dairy are "good" for you. But to what end?
Who have I become? Haunted by some fat, disgusting, terrible human being that treated me like shit and that I treated miserably as well. Yes, her. Two and a half miserable years we were together, and somehow, over two years after it ended, I just want back in her, to feel that warmth, that rush, that orgasm, telling me I'm alive and meant to reproduce.
But it's all wrong.
People may tell me that I'm just succumbing to a terrible, debilitating mental disease. And I am. But does that make my pain any less real? Does it make the fact that I hate you false? Yes, you, I hate you and what you've become. We are one in the same, at the end of the day. We're spineless about the real issues; I don't see you fighting for the reform we need.
We're passive agents in a post-modern world. And yet, when I "deconstruct" that sentence, syntactically, morphologically, semantically, and pragmatically, my analysis still isn't good enough. Oh, it may be better than yours because I happen to know what those words mean and how to apply the veneer of such an analysis. But yours could be equally good. But I digress. Let me try to deconstruct it.
We're. Why did I use a contraction? We are. There. but who are we? Whoever is stupid enough to bother reading this. Whoever is stupid enough to bother writing this. I told you, I feel emo. For the record, I'm not attacking any person in particular; this is just an attempt to get the hate out of me. To somehow feed the dark side.
Bah, I don't want to deconstruct, anymore. I don't want to construct. I don't want to live, I don't want to die. I just want to be. I'm glad the holiday season is here: spending lots of time with lots of people consuming lots of food.
My life is nothing but a story of excess.
I just now reread this. I don't want to write anymore, but I don't want to abandon my project. My attempt to show you how much I hate us and what we are. I was never sure what to believe in, honestly.
Whatever I believe in, someone shits on it. I don't have the fortitude or strength of character to go on believing; I believe in authoritarianism because I want to be told what to do. But I am too smart for that. At the end of the day, I'll want a bloody revolution to overthrow you and the shackles I let you put on me.
None of this makes any sense. If it does, then you, too, are diseased.
I like to sugarcoat things. Rather than stir trouble, which I could, or anything, I feel content to describe how I feel. At this moment, I feel vapid, empty, a worthless cog. I'm not sure where any of it is coming this time around, to be perfectly honest. My only thoughts are that it could be residuals from the stuff I've smoked lately. But, I could be wrong.
I'm so often wrong about so many things. But I know I'm not wrong when I say I have blood on my hands. I am a guilty human being. I have sinned, and committed numerous errors, most of them purposefully. Right now, I hate myself and nearly every bit of my existence.
I hate the people I know. I hate the falsities I've let take over my life. My gambling problem. My weight problem. My poor hygiene. Every single fiber of my existence is a fraud. And I think it is the same for you, too. Certainly our problems are different manifestations of different, equally complex problems, but nonetheless they represent how horrid and wretched we've allowed ourselves to become.
Why don't you have a problem with that? Why is your existence better than mine? Or, rather, why have I created that illusion? I see you, every bit as miserable as I am. Every bit as fake, as hollow, as worthless.
Yes, I went to college and I have a degree. Yes, I have fairly healthy relationships with the people I love. It is also true, that with hard work and determination, I can make my goals come true. But to what end?
At the end of the day, we're all just worthless viruses, brought forth because we are hardwired to believe that we need to create more of ourselves. But I know you don't buy that. You don't buy the god myth. And some of you, yes, you, don't buy the dietary myths that meat and dairy are "good" for you. But to what end?
Who have I become? Haunted by some fat, disgusting, terrible human being that treated me like shit and that I treated miserably as well. Yes, her. Two and a half miserable years we were together, and somehow, over two years after it ended, I just want back in her, to feel that warmth, that rush, that orgasm, telling me I'm alive and meant to reproduce.
But it's all wrong.
People may tell me that I'm just succumbing to a terrible, debilitating mental disease. And I am. But does that make my pain any less real? Does it make the fact that I hate you false? Yes, you, I hate you and what you've become. We are one in the same, at the end of the day. We're spineless about the real issues; I don't see you fighting for the reform we need.
We're passive agents in a post-modern world. And yet, when I "deconstruct" that sentence, syntactically, morphologically, semantically, and pragmatically, my analysis still isn't good enough. Oh, it may be better than yours because I happen to know what those words mean and how to apply the veneer of such an analysis. But yours could be equally good. But I digress. Let me try to deconstruct it.
We're. Why did I use a contraction? We are. There. but who are we? Whoever is stupid enough to bother reading this. Whoever is stupid enough to bother writing this. I told you, I feel emo. For the record, I'm not attacking any person in particular; this is just an attempt to get the hate out of me. To somehow feed the dark side.
Bah, I don't want to deconstruct, anymore. I don't want to construct. I don't want to live, I don't want to die. I just want to be. I'm glad the holiday season is here: spending lots of time with lots of people consuming lots of food.
My life is nothing but a story of excess.
I just now reread this. I don't want to write anymore, but I don't want to abandon my project. My attempt to show you how much I hate us and what we are. I was never sure what to believe in, honestly.
Whatever I believe in, someone shits on it. I don't have the fortitude or strength of character to go on believing; I believe in authoritarianism because I want to be told what to do. But I am too smart for that. At the end of the day, I'll want a bloody revolution to overthrow you and the shackles I let you put on me.
None of this makes any sense. If it does, then you, too, are diseased.