The rooster and a barracuda: A love story
Being in love and having a crush are as different as a grown rooster and a barracuda. Being in love, though I’ve never known it, is probably something like flying. It’s corny sounding but it’s just got to be so awkward and weird. You don’t really expect it to happen or work at all. It’s against the laws of nature and everything normal that you stand for. It’s irrational and doesn’t make sense but I also imagine in spite of all the anxiety it causes it’s probably a nice feeling and an interesting experience. Kind of like how pot is [I imagine]. A crush is nothing like this, hence the comparison to a monstrous aquatic predator. It’s more like someone came up to you out of nowhere and decided the proper form of greeting would be to drop this giant sack of rocks on top of you and force you to lug it around with you like the accessory to some prehistoric cave man. You then have to try to look ‘cute’ or ‘presentable’ while dragging this metaphorical luggage and sweating metaphorical beads of nasty, stanky sweat. This of course is a nearly impossible feat and starts the process of what will be seemingly endless swimming in bottomless pits of suffering, self-pity, misery and of course anxiety. We aren’t talking about the pot induced anxiety anymore you guys, just in case I lost your attention for a minute there. Crushes literally begin to crush your spirit if you let them, because all you’re pathetic little sap of a brain is doing is thinking of that person and making you sink down to drown in those self-pity pools. You want to know what the person is doing at all times, not in a creepy, hide your kids hide your wife kind of way but in a genuine way. You’re curious about them and you wonder if they’re curious about you, are they thinking about you? Do they ever wonder if they could ever like you like you do? And you don’t know the answers to these juvenile and frankly retarded questions that you would never in a million years ask yourself if it weren’t for the fact that you’re carrying around this person’s bag of rocks. And the worst part is that you honestly feel like you’re alone, like you’re the only one would could ever feel that way and no one could have it worse than you when that is not true at all. And somewhere you know that it really isn’t true.
You know you’re not the only one who could ever feel so broken down and tired. After all you’ve been carrying around someone else’s rocks for a while. But everyone gets like that, because liking someone, even if you don’t know them that well. Even if you just met them and right away they hand you those rocks, it still sucks the same because it’s like someone turned you all inside out. There you are like some anatomy dissection ready to be killed and taken apart and for what really? For your weaknesses? And you hate this; you don’t want that at all. You’d much rather kill everyone else than be figured out and the feelings, you hate them too. You want to kill the feelings, destroy the anxiety and the self-pity and tell yourself “drop that bag of rocks and run.” Because in the end you’re human, and all you want really want to do is survive. So what happens is you try to become tough and maybe for a while you are tough and it’s working. Maybe you’ve even convinced yourself that those pools of suffering have gotten a bit shallow, but you know that it isn’t real. It’s a total farce, a joke you play on others and yourself to try and get over the rocks and over the person. And still you worry people can see it, see the truth, because you go home and you still feel like you’re inside out, and even though no one is around it still feels like nothing short of suck. Just pure suck. You feel broken and weak and it’s the weakness that eats at you, but how could you not be weak? Carrying around their rocks, and having your blood-oxygen levels dropping severely because your heart is shrinking from the pressure of these feelings and the reality of the fact that you can’t hide from yourself when you are alone at home. In the end you just feel so broken down that you just want to throw the bag of rocks at the person for making you hurt and scream and cry out in the most dramatic Spanish soap-opera kind of way, “You want it, just come and take my heart and fuck these feelings because I don’t want any of it anymore.” And then you find yourself carving away at your shriveled heart with the very scalpel you feared they’d use on your exposed innards when they knew of your secret. In the end the person whose rocks you were carrying just gets awkward and scared and they don’t give you a straight answer because they don’t really know how and they don’t know how you expect them to act. And in the end none of that matters because you’ve made yourself suffer so much in your pools of self-hate that you aren’t even really capable to accept any answer from them except the polite ‘no’ you heard in your head up until that moment of overzealous extremity.
You know you’re not the only one who could ever feel so broken down and tired. After all you’ve been carrying around someone else’s rocks for a while. But everyone gets like that, because liking someone, even if you don’t know them that well. Even if you just met them and right away they hand you those rocks, it still sucks the same because it’s like someone turned you all inside out. There you are like some anatomy dissection ready to be killed and taken apart and for what really? For your weaknesses? And you hate this; you don’t want that at all. You’d much rather kill everyone else than be figured out and the feelings, you hate them too. You want to kill the feelings, destroy the anxiety and the self-pity and tell yourself “drop that bag of rocks and run.” Because in the end you’re human, and all you want really want to do is survive. So what happens is you try to become tough and maybe for a while you are tough and it’s working. Maybe you’ve even convinced yourself that those pools of suffering have gotten a bit shallow, but you know that it isn’t real. It’s a total farce, a joke you play on others and yourself to try and get over the rocks and over the person. And still you worry people can see it, see the truth, because you go home and you still feel like you’re inside out, and even though no one is around it still feels like nothing short of suck. Just pure suck. You feel broken and weak and it’s the weakness that eats at you, but how could you not be weak? Carrying around their rocks, and having your blood-oxygen levels dropping severely because your heart is shrinking from the pressure of these feelings and the reality of the fact that you can’t hide from yourself when you are alone at home. In the end you just feel so broken down that you just want to throw the bag of rocks at the person for making you hurt and scream and cry out in the most dramatic Spanish soap-opera kind of way, “You want it, just come and take my heart and fuck these feelings because I don’t want any of it anymore.” And then you find yourself carving away at your shriveled heart with the very scalpel you feared they’d use on your exposed innards when they knew of your secret. In the end the person whose rocks you were carrying just gets awkward and scared and they don’t give you a straight answer because they don’t really know how and they don’t know how you expect them to act. And in the end none of that matters because you’ve made yourself suffer so much in your pools of self-hate that you aren’t even really capable to accept any answer from them except the polite ‘no’ you heard in your head up until that moment of overzealous extremity.