Single Status Update
It’s 4 a.m. Once again I find myself sitting at this chair reaping the blank faced benefits of the Internet. In a state of insomnia your not alive, you’re not dead. Your watching your life play by on a glowing monitor thirty feet away, scene-by-scene every precious second deteriorates. You function on what I’ve come to refer to as “the threshold” the one thing keeping your eyelid from collapsing in on itself and sending your retina into the back of your skull. You hear the little phrases she tosses out:
“Are you ok?”
“You know you can talk to me right?”
I find myself saying yes.
Nothing I reply in a sigh.
And so it begins…
Just keep walking. Walk right on by. Glance. Glare. Divert your eyes. March onward! Flow with it, its all good he says its nothing new. I imagine a finely sharpened No. 2 pencil slamming into his throat. Oh and not one of the normal ones, I want this pencil to be ripped out of the heart of some endangered tree species right from the rain forest. Just kill one to harm another. Why? Well because I can. You see I never did enjoy his presence from the very outset. He had a distilled look. Like he was coffee sent through the filter a couple hundred times. Eventually he just lost his taste and went cold. But for some reason he stuck to me like leeches.
The reality of the entire situation is summed up by one simple statement: I’m a pussy and I refuse to rebel. Sometimes you do just go with it. Sometimes you just cope. Sometimes you start breaking shit and take no prisoners. Indulgence. A world of impulse is what fills my dreams at night. That place right over the horizon you never find but you just keep running the path. Just keep running and running and eventually you forget what your after and you lose purpose.
Just tilt the head up enough to look in her eyes.
But my concentrated stare keeps ending at the clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Pay more attention!”
“This is why you’re failing my class Lance!”
The bell sounds. Time to move from this sphere of insanity right onto the next.
I begin to read the sign. It’s one of those motivational posters, with a great picture of a sunset in the background. It reads about how intelligence is 99% perspiration and 1% some other shit I don’t bother to read because I don’t care at this point. Just move on and quit bitching. Deal with it Lance. That’s what they say. Well at least there is one person who never lets me down in this world; she is always waiting when I get home. She sits in my room near the shelf. Her name is Wellbutrin XL she tricks me into thinking life is perfect and with a low amount of sexual side effects. Available only through prescription.
“Have you taken your pill?”
I mumble a yes.
I said yes, I tell her.
“Well you can’t forget, you know I’m only doing what is best for you honey?”
“You know that don’t you?”
Walk on. Walk down those stairs and fall into a corner and think.
Personal experiences with sleep deprivation are a great parlor room story to tell the friends. But when it infects you like a disease every night, it soon loses its fun and for some reason makes me think of masturbation. For a while it’s great. Sixteen years later and its like brushing your teeth, something you don’t like. But you always seem to do. Maybe you can relate. Maybe you can’t, or maybe you have erectile dysfunction and hate your life. Whatever your story, I don’t care. Look at it this way: I don’t expect you to care either.
“Shut the fuck up fat ass!”
Sitting in silence.
“This is my house, deal with it or leave!”
Another bottle, another night.
My life is a record on skip. It’s the same everyday, but after awhile you imagine it’s different.
Fax me back my life please.
ERROR 401 LIFE NOT FOUND.
Kick the fax and walk away, it’s obviously wrong.
Pull the hair out of my eyes.
Stare into the face.
Red-faced inconsiderate liar, breath into my face.
You own her.
But you will never own me.
I am not a property to be caged.
I am not bound to your hate by material possessions.
Remember that what comes around goes around.
And that I don’t fuck around when worst comes to worst.
“Your so fucking intelligent, but if you don’t stop crying I’m gonna beat the shit out of you!”
Coward down as I realize my own fragility.
When you’re made of glass you can’t afford to break.
The pieces are to hard to put back together.
Sometimes people are temples. They house all the knowledge in the world. Sometimes people are people. They know the world as they see it. What’s the difference? A temple is cold, heartless, and wishes it could feel. A person is a blaze of emotions waiting to go out in a bang. Which am I? I wish I knew the answer. I’ve realized there must be a third type of human on this planet. Sometimes people are diamonds. They believe themselves to be perfect, omniscient, but little do they know that somewhere under their glamorous surface lies an imperfection. It eats at them until they hate themselves and what they have become. I think I might be a diamond.
People at conflict with them selves will never and can never function in society. When you fight the onslaught everyday, eventually you lose the war. Keyword: eventually. It’s only a matter of time. Is it better to admit defeat and throw in the towel? Or fight until you having nothing left to give, your body a shell? Something is better than nothing they say, but who is they? Who the fuck cares? Not me.