Text Offender (digigasm) wrote,
Text Offender
digigasm

Fuck off

What am I fighting for? I have obviously pissed off whatever god is in charge of human happiness. I don't know what my crime was but my sentence is this life with no chance for parole.

I know. Nobody likes a whiner. I don't really want people reading my thoughts because I know I come across as being a pathetic weakling pining for sympathy among strangers. But at the same time I want to leave something of myself with the public. There isn't enough honesty in the world. People say one thing and mean another thing entirely. All the while they expect you to pick up on this so you understand what they're not saying. I'm acting from an entirely seperate script. I am bound by some force to speak the truth as I perceive it; even at my own peril.

I don't want fucking sympathy. I don't want positive affirmations. I want something concrete and reliable and honest. I want comfort and peace. And then the alarm blares it's demon-scream foretelling the ugliness and shame that awaits me. I become conscious and I'm alone. I want to scream. I want to scream at the top of my lungs for somebody to please fucking help me. I want to yell for everybody to hear to leave me alone. Can't you see that I am just a scared and confused little boy? I was sick the day they handed out the tools a person needs to deal with this world.

But I am not a little boy. I never was. From the day I was born, I've had to deal with alcoholism, suicide, religion, poverty, divorce, hate, contradiction, instability. And this was just at home.

Courage is what has gotten me this far. But I find myself needing more and more courage for more trivial matters. It doesn't seem to matter to anyone because most people don't seem to need courage for things like making chit-chat with strangers or asking for a clean fork at a restaurant or telling somebody you like the way they look. I summon great amounts of courage just to walk out my front door because I know I'll be encountering road-rage, sexual-enhancement drug ads, police officers(revenue collectors), conversations, eye contact, accusations, conflict. I don't manufacture this courage, however. I fake it. I pretend I have courage and hope nobody notices that I'm pretending. But I know I'm transparent.

I could have been an excellent athelete. I could have been a musician. I could have been attractive. I could have flown to Mars. I could have written a novel. If I had been born with real courage.

Instead I am me. Not even 30 years old. My wife can't have sex with me anymore. My children are going to fuck up someday and I'll go to jail for it. I work for people that would sacrifice my health and well-being rather than take a chance that I might be able to do something that they can't understand. I am obese. I have bad breath. I sleep alone on the floor because I snore. I am addicted to nicotine. I can't relate with anyone. I am helpless to change anything.

Mother, the Christian, says to have faith. Faith in what, exactly? A God that is all seeing and all knowing. A God with infinite power. He created man because He was lonely. And He created woman because man was lonely. Fine, God. Great. I have an idea. Why don't you also give us the "gift" of free will. After you've done that, why don't you let Lucifer(who you've allowed to exist) have the run of the place spreading his lies and temptation throughout paradise. Now, what you need to do is disappear for a few hundred-thousand years and give us nothing to go on except faith. Ok? Get a fucking grip, God. You selfish, neurotic imbicile. If you are all-wise and all-powerful, why did you create man in your own image? Why must we suffer for your shortcomings? Do us a favor and just vaporize the whole lot. After that, you can create another God to play with.

My psychologist doesn't think that I'm dangerously depressed. He thinks I have mild depression that is being aggrivated by stress. I feel dangerously depressed. If it's not depression, it must be raw anger. Anger at my self. Anger at my inability to cope. Anger at my wife for not loving me the way I love her. Anger at my children for not understanding. Anger at my Father and Mother. Anger at my addiction. Anger at my fantasies for not being real. Anger at my machines for breaking. Anger at musicians for creating art that I should be creating. Anger at Hollywood for thinking they can control me. Anger at the people I look up to for not mentoring me. Anger at a society that doesn't tolerate anger and honesty. Anger at my lack of courage to do something about my anger. Anger that I have to take drugs to be free from pain. Anger that I have to subject myself to this job to be able to afford the drugs to prolong a life that I can't even manage.

But I'm supposed to remember that I'm not alone. There are people in worse situations. Great. Load us all into a cement chamber and flash-fry is into ash. We are obviously of no use to you normal people judging by the way we are treated.

Help is available. Help is for sale and the people that need the help the most can't pay the price.

Look at the bright side, you're still alive. There is no bright side of a pile of shit. How can you consider being alive, in this condition, as being bright? Remember my face, motherfucker.

What will sustain me? Will I magically lose 80 pounds overnight? Will I ever be approached by a beautiful woman who wants my sex? Will I ever win the lottery so I can purchase the rest of my life to live the way I would? Will I someday know all the right things to say? Will I ever be free from sleep? Will my children grow up to make me proud? Will I ever know the joy of performing on stage again? Will I ever have the power to squash those that have hurt me and help those who have helped me? No. These are the promises of late-night info-mercials.

So what have I got? I've got machines that I have some control over. I have drugs to blur my mind. I have movies and music to waste my time. I have lubrication and pornography to distract me. I have the floor I sleep on.

What do I need? Hope. Love. Security. Peace.
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