Why do I care? Why do you tell me things so divorced from context that I can barely stand hearing them because all I hear and all I see is other people bringing you the small joys I brought you when we first got together and this stupid inane part of my skull goes there they are, there's the one you'll leave me for. This is what happens when every meaningful relationship I've ever felt and it took the time to write this paragraph to realise that you were talking about sharing music and this. This is the reason I can't talk when things bother me because
And if I expressed to you every little thing that made me paranoid or want to swallow my own tonsils with a soothing wash of crushed glass that you did you'd either kill yourself or leave me and both options are fucking insane. You're insane but honestly I've never been in your skull and you'll never be in mine and this is as close as you could get but my god this would just lead to a fight, wouldn't it? At what point does honesty and transparency cross into oversharing and at what point am I closed off instead? I don't know anymore and I'm frightened to find out. I want to be writing this with a cigarette in my mouth and opiates in my veins and a drink in my hand (preferably something hard with something appropriately fruity and lame mixed in, somewhere in the 20/80 mix in order)
The moments where music turns off are the moments where everything starts to grind and then the music comes on like a sexual release and I wanted to write to get out ideas I've had but instead I'm draining my body. I can feel it – it started above my eyeballs and now it's in the core of my chest and dripping down, and every sentence that continues on and I know by the end of the paragraph it will have filtered – ctrl-c ctrl-v drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip drip down somewhere below my sternum and do I feel better?
No. I read somewhere that being poor is living without hope for tomorrow, just hope for today. It's kindof wonderful in it's own way, but it's also incredibly depressing. You can't live hopeless, because that is the leading cause of suicide – loss of hope. It isn't directly the abuse or the humiliation of everyday life and everywhere eyes but my god I can't stand it and I'm so tired. I'm so tried all the time and all I want to do is breathe. I want to scream and breathe and then scream and then run until I collapse, because I work at a desk job and all I want all day is to move around but when I'm done my mind is worn down to a thin soup or a rough nub and
I literally just told you I was checking out for twenty minutes and then you're going to sigh in exasperation and storm out to smoke because I didn't hear you, just saw and I'm wrong again I'm always wrong this is why we don't talk. You'll resent me if I ever express any of the feelings I feel until I divorce myself of them and look at them like a human being.
I'm always sorry. I'm always apologizing. I need to apologize because dealing with me is a burden and a chore and I'm just ready to fall into a fantasy world and make it real. I'd like to go crazy. I want to be left alone. I want to sit, smiling stupidly in a corner while someone spoon feeds me because honestly I can't handle being responsible for myself much longer. If I ever leave you
I hate. I hate this sensation this is why I hate you so much it turned into love because every time I try to drain myself out so I can finally stop feeling something you talk to me and fill me up with something! And so rarely is it ever bad, it's never something I have a right to get upset at you about it's always something lovely and wonderful like the heat you feel when you look at someone you love or the agony of when that person has better people to spend time with or the delicious pressure that builds up in my clit when I think about our characters or my overeagerness to play or the fact that I can barely breathe sometimes when I catch you looking at me with nothing but adoration when I'm a fat, square shaped cow with saggy tits and a hairy cunt that never stops bleeding. I want you to stop sometimes. Sometimes I just want to make you go away like – I want you to fucking leave. I want you to get the fuck out for three or four days so I can finally get empty again and try to get back to the person I was when we met.
I know I've improved – you'd fight me on that and there are parts I don't miss but I also just long for being able to be alone and not constantly worry I've been wasting my time. Why do I play video games? Because even more than you I hate being in my own head. I know that sounds selfish and incredibly self absorbed but when every
is make or break use it or lose it enjoy it while you can because everything will be a vile morass of hatred in the morning you'd understand why it's so hard for me to keep hold of things and want to keep doing things. I want new beginnings over and over again because I know how to do those, I can make those perfectly wonderful or perfectly terrible all day, but everything at the middle and the end? Where does that go? What part of the introduction should that play in? Why is none of my music suited to what I want anymore?
Why are no ideas coming out? Instead I angrily write everything I feel in a morass of bile and vomit and self loathing and you'd think I'm suicidal or at least depressed but, as the great Marilyn Manson once said, “who isn't depressed?”
I'm really quite happy in a lot of ways. But in a lot of ways I belong locked in a room being fed gruel and water through a chute while being trained to be a real human being. I wonder how much of this is me feeling like I'm weak and ineffectual and how much of my weak, ineffectualness is actually caused by me overburdening myself in the vain attempt to appear to be a better person than I am? I'm doing the Jessica Jones thing; I'm not a hero, but if I work hard I might fool myself otherwise. I don't want to be a hero or a breadwinner. I want to be asleep at 4pm because I've been up for 48 hours and roleplaying 24/7 and brimming with new ideas and new pictures.
Kiss me kill me now you wanna thrill me and why is my brain so campy and obnoxious??? I've written nearly two complete pages and at 7:58 I can stop but until then I have to keep going and try to keep going at this grueling pace I've set and my hands are numb and why wont the music come on hurry up swap to the next fucking song thank christ thank god there we go some more gold fields.
I don't know what you want or what you like about me and even if you told me and provided graphs and diagrams I still wouldn't know and would still be at a loss. I'm going to cheat and stop right... now at 7:57 instead because my hands hurt and I want to roleplay.
Current Location: Home
Current Mood: what.
Current Music: Sarah Jaffe - Lover Girl