Wednesday, December 23, 2009

It's almost Christmas, so let's start spreading the cheer fuckers

It's almost Christmas.  The weather is playing tricks on me.

It's cold and raining.  Raining bullets like we are at Columbine.

Those guys had the right idea.  Don't just kill yourself.  Kill all the fuckers that start shit with you.  Kill all the fuckers that make your life miserable.  Kill all the people who have it better off than you.

I had an idea for  Suicide Christmas Cards and it went something like that.  Which is why I guess I don't work at a Greeting Card Company writing sappy cards that will tear up ol' Grandma.

I say fuck Granny.  She spent all day shopping for gift bags that have pictures of cute kittens on them.  She does not know how to use the gift card you gave her.  She can't figure out all this modern technology she sees in front of her.  Her fingers run over her cell phone trying to find the slot to put the quarter in.  She gets pissed off when she can't find the privacy booth to talk in.

We weren't supposed to live this long.

I have proof of that in my bowel movements.  The daily dumps all my readers keep telling me to stop talking about like if they were shitting yellow for a week and it suddenly turned black again because they had spent the past few days hibernating in a alcohol coma they could ever shut up about it.

I guess I should not tell you that I got a bruise on my arm.   All I know is it is yellow and squishy like cream corn living under the surface of my arms.

I've got some kind of rash. I think that is making my neck red and bumpy but that could just be the nasal infection I have had since the 8th grade when I moved here.

But some asshole at work told me that my kidney might be failing and I can't stop itching now.

I have a second toe trying for an ingrown toe nail, but I am searching for laptops on craigslist instead of saving money for the doctor.  I still need a monitor and a bigger hard drive and a DVD player on my computer so I think it makes sense to go ahead and "invest" in a laptop that has all that stuff.  I have no idea why that seems like a bad idea.  Really.  I bet I can get a list of podiatrists from my union that work for free.  I bet they can clean all this MERSA.  I bet they fix degrading organs.

I don't want to do that.  I got this flash of inspiration that people like me think about rational shit the same way you guys think of impulses.  Nobody takes impulses seriously.  Every one wants to shoot their three year old in the face.  Everybody wants to tell off their boss.  But nobody does that.  Same with me.  Only the opposite.  I can't seem to think of rational things as anything other than a flash or an impulse.  It all moves so fast.  Good decisions are just a blur for me.  I live some place slower than all you.

Cold, dark, gray light.  Weather playing tricks with me.  I listen to a loop of the first three songs of Foreigner's Very Best and Beyond.

People tell me at work that they don't believe that I am depressed.  I laugh at them when they talk to me like they know me.  I smile at the fuckers in my line to0, and when I notice my voice gets too monotone I adjust it.  I pick up a few decibel levels and I flash a toffee popcorn grin at the cute girls with tarantula eyes.  I love when hot chicks can't figure out the simplest shit like how to apply fucking mascara.

Call me Scrooge.  But this fucking computer types 23 words a minute and I type 34 words a minute.  I have to wait for the god damn thing to catch up with me and we are supposed to be living in the 21st century.  Well all I know is technology is fucked and it ain't getting any better for us on the sidelines.

Today is one of those days.  All the loneliness.  All the panic.  Nothing is here but the itching and the smell of rotten fish.

You know the only thing more annoying that people telling me I am not depressed?  When people think they have a clue as to why I write this blog.  Like I am some kind of suffering Narcissist who can't get enough attention.

Like I want your fucking attention.  Trust me.   If I wanted your fucking attention I would get it.  I am smart enough to get through a few physics and chemistry classes.  I might not get A's.  But you don't need to get an A in BLOWING shit up to BLOW shit up even if that BLOWING shit up would be ME getting BLOWN THE FUCK UP.

I like the company out here on the internet.  Even with all crazy ass bullshit most of you don't call me on it.  You don't sit around fixing me.  You're as curious as I am at exploring the shit you see on the screen.  Maybe it doesn't make sense half the time for you.  But that's okay. The German's have a word for it. We are just exploring 'lifeworlds'.  But I am going to pretend you are smart enough to quote Habermas naively and pretend you have access to big ass dictionaries and Google so I am not going to insult you and mention that word.  I think it brings us together.  How I project you with intelligence.  Maybe dark hair, that you feel the need to nervously finger behind your ear.

God.  You are so fucking gorgeous.

Beauty is the one thing that keeps psychopaths human.  That's why every psycho loves beautiful women.  That's why he shoots them up at L.A. Fitness.  That's why he carves them up in his basement. That's why he stalks them on their way to the bookstore and peaks in their windows when they take a shower and that's why he stares at you across the aisle while you use the self checkout line even though he heard your friend tell you about the open line at the express lane and he saw you brush your hair in front of your face to cover up what your beautiful mouth was saying, that the guy in the express lane gives you the most intense stares you have ever seen and maybe you think he is some kind of Vampire all because he has red, itchy earlobes and it would just be better if you two stayed over at the self check out and try not to stare back at the guy because that kind of shit just encourages him.

You can wonder at me.

But I wonder at myself sometimes.

I wonder why I got through it all.  I wonder when I am going to start waiting for the raindrops to fall on me.

1 comment:

thimscool said...

Should be: "Nothing is here but the itching and the scratching."

It's the itchy and scratchy show, ya know?

But enough armchair editorials...

Second of all, may I say, Merry Christmas Romius T!

I know you don't go in for all of that Santa claptrap, but consider for a moment that your creator (a distant descendant of your species that thought he would evolve quicker, and collapse the universal wavefunction more effectively, by intervening in the process of his own evolution, in metatime, by what we primitively refer to as reverse time travel) chose to actually incarnate and shit in diapers in order to guide us greedy scum into a more perfect union. Hallelujah, motherfucker!

Finally allow me to offer expert advise on your impending laptop (or other) purchase... what is your budget? If we're talking two ingrown toenails then I'm thinking you can have a jetset special. But I gather the goal here is 21st century... lay it on me, brother.