existential realism

My hand is shaking the key in the lock:

it's not from anxiety, it's because I'm drunk.

Nothing to do with the weather,

nothing to do with the cold,

the shivering up and down my arm

is because I'm home. 

They tell you that money is everything.

"economics"… that's accordant.

i can tell you that that "socio-" is much more important.

If this is my last day on  earth,

then my face has been hiding what I could never dismiss:

"if this were my childhood, 

then as an adult, I should have died many times before this."

Look at my street,

at this house that was to be a home.

This is the American Dream:

to have and to hold. 

But when you're eighteen,

the last of the prodigy

to leave this fucking house,

you will light its groundwork and watch it burn.

You will laugh the entire time.

but you will die,

watch your upbringing again and again;

but every time it will end the same.

protect this house and all who enter.

more like:

protect this hell and give no one shelter. 

poor kids die from guns and violence.

rich kids die from angst and defiance. 

I am wasted.

I need attention.

I want to be birthed from love,

not lustful dissension.

true story.

i'm ovulating.

and i'm drunk.

it would be a shame for this opportunity to be wasted.

hashtag bad decisions.

it's three days later.

my hormones are subsiding.

but there's a new text message thread in my phone.

F************************CK

this life. it's like my mother naturally wants me to hate myself by making me hate her.

murder has never seemed so goddamn fucking ethical.

why can't we give people--like my mother--a second goddamn chance at happiness?

or do we? and my mom is just too much of a fucking asshole to realize what happiness oughta look like?

it's probably the latter. you shouldn't be bawling your eyes out this much: but my mother has found a way.

I have to drink more. Always more.

chug. chug. chug. forget it all. the only thing holding you back. has already left a hole in your head too massive to hide underneath antidepressants and ADHD medications and unlimited ethanol. better off dead. where people can't leave you. where you'll never feel alone.

Retribution

I ran out of my ADD medication four days ago.
This morning I started writing. It is twelve hours later. I have finished two sentences of a paragraph.

This is not a deficiency. This is madness.

Chewing Scenery

Here are some of my favorite quotes from Star Trek: Voyager:

"Species that don't change die."
"I wish it was as easy to stop hating as it was to start."
"Our best defense is knowledge."
"We are of the same hand."
"...and not just a cheap copy of your father."

I really miss those guys.

Self-Loathing and a Bottle

I can't stand it anymore. How weak some women get. It drives me insane that a society could force women to place all their happiness on any one man's approval. What an absurd concept: seeking purpose by constantly trying to please someone that isn't yourself.

And now I've lost it. It being the respect I had for so many women I used to care about. But it is hard to care about someone who can't care about themselves... about someone who would rather drive drunk and die than be alone for any amount of time and attempt to understand who they are without the deconstructive lens of another person's personality.

It makes me sick and what's worse is I don't find myself hating men for this. I hate the women. So now I hate myself for becoming so twisted up in this... whatever this is... a sick societal game where half the population is forced into eventual suffering.

Although, before I become all high and mighty... It is true that I am not perfect.... In the past I would have gladly changed myself if it could garner the attention and/or affection of someone I was attracted to. Countless examples of me floundering to get what I wanted spring to mind. Now, honestly, I am enraged that I was like that at all, and even more enraged that there are women I once respected--women who are older than me (so much older)--that haven't yet realized this for themselves.

Men will die before you (statistically true). Men will cheat (statistically true). Men will disregard you if it conveniences them even a little (not statistically true but it feels accurate). More importantly, men will physically and emotionally abuse you (also, statistically likely). Why then, would you invest in them? Invest in them so much that your life means nothing if you were to lose them? Why, then, would you, upon finding your relationship falling apart, let yourself immediately transform into an alcoholic?

Escapism into a world where the minutes you spend alone fly by as if they never happened.

Because to be left alone would be...

Terrible since you...

You... yourself... are so...

Unsustainable.

Alone.

the stressful epoch

At night I only have nightmares. Of all the people I've failed. They are yelling, crying, begging for me to help. But I just run. And then they find me. They always find me. I have no excuses. I am emotionally weak. And no amount of sedatives will let me forget this flaw of mine.

Dysphoric Days

"I hate myself," the girl giggles as she raises the wine cube above her head to get a sip, a gulp, a swallow, a drag.

Dysphoric days were all that lay ahead for her. Could be worse. Could be better. But no, this was fine: just hiccups and headaches and partial seizures and awkward smiles into her only pillow because dammit, her bedroom was the only place she felt safe.

It hurts to sleep.

Pretty Pretty

Also, something terrible has happened: I'm not pretty. And now I'm doubting if I ever was. I don't know what it is, but I photograph terribly. And I no longer enjoy staring at myself, making my apartment--3 rooms with 12 mirrors--a prison. Am I getting older? Am I getting fatter? Am I just always tired now? Is it my hair? Is this something surgery could fix? How am I suppose to exude an unhealthy amount of confidence when I don't even feel like daydreaming about making out with myself?

This is terrible.

positive feedback

It's a headache so bad it makes my eyes curl inwards and all my dreams die. It's so bad I can't focus. It's so bad I assume it must be a migraine except I know it's not because it's a bilateral, crushing temple pain. It's a stress headache that won't go away no matter what I do.

IT IS SO STRESSFUL.

Today did not exist, with eyes half open and an over-indulged impulse to sleep, to doze off into tomorrow.

Waste time watching permutations of self that seem happy in other worlds. Learn no lessons except it would be nice to be loved.