I got drunk last night. Really drunk.
I have the habit of waking up when I begin to sober up and write something…then read it the next day with almost no recollection of writing it. People remember me getting up and saying I have to “get it down”. But I don’t remember writing it the next day.
This is one such thing I wrote last night.
I noticed a line in it is a title of a thread on this board. That compelled me to post this here.
This is not me, this is drunk me. Now the question is…what’s the difference.
What a unique position…being able to critique yourself… so honestly.
Respite
What is the point of living if all I can feel is the most deep, horrifyingly indescribable form of unhappiness imaginable.
If your boxers scrunch up, don’t you want to pull at them? That’s what life is like to me…a wedgie. It’s that deep, inner discomfort that you know is so easily removed if you just had the courage to stand up for yourself and take the humiliation of disclosing the source of this pain to the world. I go to bed every night and think, “Gee, wouldn’t it be great if I never wake up?” But I’m spineless and weak. I care too muc…about other peopl…and what they thin…of me.
I want to be glorious.
I’m hideous.
Yes, I’m whining, fuck you, asshole. I’m allowed to whine. My life is one big whine but you don’t know that, do you? Do you even care? Probably not. Just like no one realllly cares if you pull that wedgie out of your tortured asscrack, no one really cares if you live or if you die.
Sartre was wrong, no one is looking at me. I’m too busy looking at myself. I hate what I see.
I should kill myself. I really should. So should everyone else.
It’s not going to happen, though. I die, they live on. I’m known as a function of Darwinism. My family name dies because I wasn’t strong enough to survive myself for natural selection. I think the only reason I want to have a son is so that I can have no more ties to this world. My duty would be fufilled. There will be an heir to my insanity.
My life is a fabrication. I don’t exist. But you know that. I’m just words on a page to you. I’m just the bleeding soul of a wounded soldier of the mellow drama that surrounds you. Yes, drama follows you…you don’t fabricate it. You’re not at all responsible for yourself or your environment, are you? Because to be responsible would mean that you’d have to own responsibility, and we cannot have that. Responsibility for ourselves is the only thing in this world that is ours but none of us want to own.
You are responsible for me and my sadness. How does that make you feel? I blame YOU, the person reading this, for how I feel. It is your fault, you did this to me. You made me what I am, you made me what I hate, you made me what you want to read.
Read this. Just as you made me, I have made you. I can just as easily unmake and remake you.
What do you want to be today?
Probably not me.
I don’t blame you; I don’t want to be me either.
Why is the rational choice to end your own existence considered depression? I am not depressed, I am melancholy. Depression is an abuse of terms. I don’t feel down because I’m sad, I feel empowered, charged with a duty to inform and misinform who I want to, not bound by your standards of what is right and what is wrong. I see, I see.
This sounds like the ramblings of a crazy man. That was intended.
I am not suicidal, I’m just toying with the idea… like I have since the day I was born.
I haven’t done it yet, and I probably never will, for I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.
