This poor kid looks PISSED
And finally, here comes the motherfucking storm. The proverbial (cliche, even) flood gates have burst opened in an outpouring of creative writing, inspired only by the melancholy of a painfully average 24 year old manchild.
I suffer from writer’s block, but not the kind that leaves one staring at a blank computer screen. I will often pound away at my writing for hours, pouring out mercurial lines of bullshit and nothingness that I immediately second guess.
I then delete it.
A brief estimate leads me to believe I have written well over 50,000 words in the last couple of weeks. I don’t recall, honestly. It was all bullshit.
Unrequited love. Semi-occasional drinking and drug use. Walking around a grey city under the second bleakest sky in the country. Unrequited love. Countless hours justifying the countless hours I spend in dive bars because “well, I work here”. Countless hours drinking after hours in said dive bars. Unrequited love.
She’s a 22 year old writer from Ohio with a penchant for history and her adorable cat. I am deathly allergic to her cat. More on her never.
I write and rewrite and delete and rewrite and never, ever, fucking ever hit save. Once you save something to your computer, it’s there forever. The feds can get it someday. Big brother. It automatically gets uploaded into a super conspiracy cloud controlled by a personified apple that can google shit. We’re fucked.
Is there syntax without the written word? Is it possible to verbalize eye fucking? Should I say something?
No, I shouldn’t say anything. I’m not thinking consciously. I shouldn’t be thinking at all. This is just the rest of my life, miming on a fucking tightrope and somehow not losing my balance.
We don’t have the conversations in person anymore because you can’t look me in the eyes. I guess they really are “windows to the soul”.
I see everything.
And you may love him, but you can’t live without me. Go ahead and try.
Stop taking yourself so seriously.
"Depression is a disorder of mood, so mysteriously painful and elusive in the way it becomes known to the self-to the mediating intellect- as to verge close to being beyond description."
I sink deeper into the coils of my mattress, the soil of my earth. The metal gives way to my still slimming frame every night. In the last month, I have lost seven pounds. This should be monumental, or at least inspiring; I’ve finally reached my “ideal” weight, but pounds of flesh have been replaced by an all encompassing listlessness. All that’s left are half-baked ideas, a glass constantly left half empty, and a voice that resonates in my head. A voice that is not my own.
This voice, the only voice of reason, or of consequence, dictates things I already know to be true. I am destined, perhaps even condemned, to battle an inner monologue that berates me into absolute submission. You are incapable of love, it tells me. Love of self. Love of anything. You are not depressed. You are simply cataloguing every reason you’ve ever had to not give a fuck. Congratulations, you were right all along. This is the meaning of life.
And I remember sitting there with you that day. I remember the deadpan, your smile, as we talked about how incestual writers can be. I remember the green of your irises as I told you I loved you, that I’d rather be anywhere in the world, anywhere but in this this hellhole. I said that I’d make my home wherever you were. I wanted it to be true.
You are not my home. My home is in this prison of cotton and metal coils, where the smoke burrows itself into my lungs until I can no longer breathe. I am infinitely separated from the streets of Philadelphia, the only place that’s ever felt familiar, but I am even further from you, mere blocks away.
I remember you telling me of his threats, his “promises” that he could not live without you. I remember not believing a word of it.
I told myself then that you could never be the voice in my head. The voice that knows no doubt. The voice that dictates. I cannot live with or without you. I know this to be truth.
If you let me have my way, I will tear you apart. My glass is no longer half empty. It is as unabashedly empty as my stomach. I am not awaiting salvation. There is no divination here. I am awaiting hell.
The voice tells me this is purgatory. I know this to be true.
Am I my own god damn person?
Do I desperately want to live my favorite songs?
What the fuck is being relatable anyway?
I can relate to you. You’ve loved. You’ve gone through bouts of self doubt and self loathing. You’ve woken up on more than one god forsaken morning cursing everything that happened to you the night before.
You are your own muse.
Live out your own fucking love song.
Start awkward conversations. Sell drugs.
Fuck the same girl as your friend.
In his old room.
Tell yourself he probably didn’t fuck her, anyway.
Get obscenely personal when all you really wanted to do was tell a relatable story.
You can relate to me. I had my first shot of whiskey with my childhood best friend at 13. He’s now an engaged father and I’m a “super” senior, and super excited to serve you drinks at not one but two of your favorite dives.
You don’t have to like me, motherfucker, it’s dollar glass of bourbon.
And all this…I don’t know, all this primal shit I feel. Fuck, man.
No I don’t think I love you, but yeah I think I’d like to fuck you again. That was fun, wasn’t it? Wait, don’t answer that.
Like those favorite songs we want to live. The ones you quote to me in his old room. In my bed. Fuck yeah, this is a cliche.
You can relate to this. Drink your fucking bourbon.