real me

i'm gonna cry in a minute. I've been wanting to for a couple of hours, but I don't know why.

I don't want to work. I don't want to play. I don't want to fuck. I don't want to pray.
I don't want to love. I don't have any hate. I don't want to cry. And I don't appreciate.

Sounds like a depressing Dr. Seuss, doesn't it?

I went out again tonight. Plenty of girls, plenty of opportunity, plenty of alcohol, plenty of...

I don't know what else was there, but I wasn't smiling. I just didn't want to play.

It's work to go up to chicks. You know that, bitches? It's fucking WORK. You're not fucking special, you're not that entertaining, and most of you really aren't even that hot, no matter what your girlfriends say or how much your foundation cost.

And for you to make me act like a fucking circus monkey after I've caught you checking me out 4 times is fucking lame. Grow the fuck up and be fucking nice.

I am not your circus monkey, I am not some clown to make you laugh, and I am sick and fucking tired of working for shit.

Working for love.

I don't want to be alfie anymore.

But you know what? I don't want to be me, either. That fucking guy is really smart and appreciated for his tenacity. But that's it. Mostly, people shit on him. Now that he's "made something of himself", whatever the fuck that means, MORE people shit on him. People who were supposed to be his friends and family now shit on him too.

Fuck that guy. Fuck alfie. Fuck everything in between.

Fuck you, fuck the world, and fuck your mother.

--

I just wish I had enough energy left to be angry like that more of the time. That anger is all I've got.

--

I was just thinking about how two people who don't know shit about me (despite knowing me for more than half my life in one case) like to say they'd rather that I "be real" and "true" instead of putting on the alfie mask.

Easy for you to fucking say. Can I see one fucking piece of shit that has a black cloud like mine following him around that is actually happy?

No. You're all dead or disconnected.

That's the conundrum. I don't hate enough. It was so much better when I was still angry at Laura, still ready to take it out on any chick who crossed my path.

Everyone I know who has my type of baggage fluctuates between depression and evil. They use people, they don't follow that goddamn piece of shit golden rule, and they're perfectly fine. They aren't happy, no, but they don't get as far down the rabbit hole as I am progressing at an increasingly rapid pace.

They don't find themselves out with their best friends with pretty girls smiling at them and walk back to the car, alone, and cry.

They get phone numbers. Or they get laid. Or both.

So, yeah, I'm me. Whoopdee fucking do. Alone, as always, at 3:30 in the goddamn morning wishing I could remember something sad enough so that I could actually cry. Wishing I could come up with an excuse good enough so that I can actually feel the despair that haunts my soul. Wishing it could ever be ok.

Wishing I could remember what it feels like to actually smile. Not at something funny, but because I feel peace and contentment.

Or even just hope.

Right here, right now, in this one moment in time, I don't miss anything or anyone. I don't hunger for some feeling of belonging from the universe, from my mother, from some chick named Lauren or Laura, from an old friend, or from my own sense of accomplishment.

Right now I just want to stop crying. Stop wanting. Stop needing.

Right now I wish I were apathetic and stoic.

Right now I wish I were dead.

--

That's funny. I just stopped crying.

--

Don't call. I'll be fine. It's not the first time I've had these thoughts, and it clearly won't be the last. I kinda just want to kill the part of me that cares. I feel so alone anyway... why not?

The thing is, nothing can fix this. There is no solution. I wouldn't know what it felt like to actually be loved if it hit me in the head.

Laura said she loved me. But she clearly didn't.

Lauren said she appreciated me, and when I saw it in action coupled with "I waited all day to be here" as she lay in my arms, for a few moments, I believed it. It felt really good. But the minute I believed, she was gone.

Amanda at Disneyland was a really happy time. Except for... right. Drama queen. If that's love, I don't want it.

Mom says she loves me all the time. But she married the devil and let him abuse me incessantly without apology.

--

I've been thinking about that whole "giving back" thing lately, and there's a problem. Really giving back requires that you have something to give.

I think that I really am dying, even if I don't jump off something with a high altitude.

I don't want to hope anymore. I don't want to feel that, because it just makes me want, want, want.

It hurt so bad when you took it away, Lauren. It hurt so bad when I believed in you Laura. It hurt so bad when you left me out in the cold Mom. It hurt so so so bad.

And, like an abused kid yet again, I'm left to blame myself, to try and re-take the control that was taken from me forcefully. It's not that Laura was a whore or Lauren was a baby. It's not that Mom was an idiot and a baby. It's not even that Chrissy was a slutbag psycho and Amanda was a drama queen.

It's my fault. I'm too blame. I didn't work hard enough, or I was too nice, or I gave too much too quickly, or I forgot to play the game, or I trusted too much, or I was just plain stupid. I, I, I.

It's my fault for hoping, my fault for believing, my fault for loving, my fault for them leaving.

It's my fault she cheated, my fault she left, my fault she fought with me, my fault she caused drama, my fault she lied, my fault she couldn't stand up to dad, me, me, me.

I feel angry again. I guess that's good, because it means on some level I don't believe this shit.

--

Something has got to give soon. I'm going to sabotage my world and self-medicate myself into oblivion if I keep this up.