Tuesday, 29 December 2015
I'll let the wound lie open for a while. Let it weep pus and dribble whilst I smile. I've been working on this heartache ever since I was a child. They say 'autistic tendencies' and put a dossier in their file. But being put in a box was certainly never in my style. I just felt that everyone around me was mind numbingly vile. My family wrote me off as hostile. Teachers wrote me off to everyone with bile. Meanwhile, I used my charm and wiles to beguile everything I considered even slightly worthwhile. Exploited people's decency against them and then left them used atop the garbage pile. I'll punch out of life still angry, yelling fuck em all, as I walk through the pearly turnstile.
Sunday, 13 December 2015
I created a hole for myself. Dug in. Curled up. Made myself at home. Walled myself away from all the other surface dwelling homunculi and gnomes. But eventually they found me. Exhumed me. Brushed off all my dusty bones. Crushed me into shape and forced what was left of me into selling phones.
I like to leave things unfinished. So my skills can't be questioned or diminished. I like to leave things undone, so the pangs of guilt can keep me feeling glum. I like to wallow in the dissatisfaction of totally controlled inaction. For the alternative path would mean my life is still crappy, but I'd have no excuses so I'd still be unhappy.
Thursday, 10 December 2015
I love the little girls that walk along the sidewalk bawling. I love the men on crutches struggling. I love the little old ladies, bent-backed, with their shopping bags overflowing. They let me fill myself with benevolent thoughts about offering them lifts in my car. It makes me feel great about myself as I drive on by.
Saturday, 5 December 2015
He sent me platitudes designed to make himself feel better. As if telling me that I'm 'amazing' and that I 'deserve so much more' somehow absolves him from all of his indiscretions. He walks away guilt free. He even feels good about himself for the effort he's gone to in letting me down lightly. I sit with my mouth open, willing my eyeballs to sink backwards into my head. I could get up and do something, but I'd rather be dead. Not because I'm depressed, but because he deserves to be erased from my head.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Life drags on or flies by, until your memories are completely fried. The stories your grandparents handed down to you, the list of all the little things you've got to do, they all go down the kitchen sink, with your ability to sit and think. Everything just gets faster and harder, like I'm stuck endlessly playing Galaga, or maybe Pacman or Frogger, it just speeds up and repeats itself until game over.