Archive for August, 2011

Misery

Posted: August 28, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

I’m completely miserable.
I know I shouldn’t be.
Would you like to list the reasons for me again?
Knowing just makes it worse.

“Do some reasearch.”

Do some fucking research?

Does my life appear that short sighted and impulsive?
Are you fucking kidding me?

That’s right up there with,
“Just fake it until you make it.”

Oh yes.
It is.

Fucking worthless bullshit.

So many people have less than me.
Yeah, I’m sick of that one, too.

As if I’m a particularly greedy individual.
Cut throat for fame and fortune.
Have I stepped on a disproportionate number of innocents
to get to this high position?

That’s me all over.
That’s why you had to ask me if I’m a communist, right?

Short answer, yes.
I’m more of an
equal opportunity misanthrope

long since replacing skepticism, cynicism and doubt
with antipathy for playground politics.

Not blind.

“What happened for you?”

You ask fully expecting a horror story tipped with tragedy and steeped in reinforcing abuse.
I don’t have a reason
or an excuse.
I can make one up for you if that would make you feel better about not caring that I feel worse.

Simple self-pity.
I hear that a lot, too.

Maybe.

You told me I disgusted you, because I don’t like the American populace.
I disgust you?

Good.

How much more disgusting would I find myself if you loved me?
But then, of course, plenty of people do.
No, they don’t love me.

They care.

I’m told there’s a difference.
I don’t know the difference.
I should.

I don’t.

Just shut up then.
Most of the time, I do.

Most avenues for genuine
honest
communication have been blocked.

Someday, I’ll be just like you.

I’m not this person either.

Posted: August 27, 2011 in otiose

Wells Fargo woke me from a nap.
I answered only to be put on hold and then they disconnected.
I suppose I received the intended message regardless.

You can reassert however often you like, but debt is debt
and I’m a human being.

Submit three times daily.
It’s supposed to be five.

Five.

Five is so high.

Three.

Three times daily.

My first earthquake followed by my first hurricane.
I’m supposed to gush about both
but I’m underwhelmed.

My room smells like vomit, but I can’t bring myself to throw up.
I need a drink.

Let it go.
I still miss you sometimes.

I can’t afford to stay alive.

glass of water

Posted: August 27, 2011 in transliteration

I had to shut everything away at a safe, muted distance and reduced myself to traveling to and from the drinking fountain
with a glass.
I kept the glass from a pair we drank from.
One shatters against the wall before he put his fist through it
less than six inches from my face.
I carried the surviving glass to and from the drinking fountain.

I drank heavily
but I ventured to and from the drinking fountain
to sustain my Krebs cycle.

You breached the subject unexpectedly.
You’d noticed me
going to and from the drinking fountain.

You said that I was a lot like the people you painted
the way you painted them…

but you painted homeless people
from photos.

You may have been right.
I probably am more like those people you watched
than I’ll ever be like you.

What you saw, I feel, but your rationalization of it will always fall short.

I don’t pretend to know you.
I don’t sit and watch you and analyze you.
I acknowledge that you exist, and I might take note of what you’re doing.
I might attempt to change courses if you step in my path

to and from the drinking fountain.

Boredom

Posted: August 21, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , ,

I stopped counting the days after 1000, but I know what day it was
even if I’m not clear on what day it is.
It doesn’t change.
It doesn’t get easier.

I don’t have a “lifestyle” to change.
I’ve been lying to myself for awhile now.

I revisited a high school crush the year after I graduated college.
He’s probably a really great guy.
I know he is
and he’s a lot more attractive than he ever was as a kid.

I ended up calling him an asshole anyway…


…because I have problems.

I tried to figure it out for a few months;
what went wrong
but it’s not worth figuring out.

I just didn’t belong with him, and he took that extremely personally.
It was personal.

It’s not that I intended to intrude and make him mad
but that’s how it happened.
I still think he’s an asshole.

Maybe I should have taken the sugar cubes.

“I can hear it,” and then he told me all about how he can tell me all about where I’m from.

First of all, if you can hear it, then why did you ask me about local shelters and persist until I told you I’m not from the area? If you can fucking hear it, why did you have to ask me where I’m from?
Can you see my socioeconomic status stamped across my face as well?
“I know people.”

No.
You don’t.

Secondly, I hated Chicago, and I hate a lot of the people from Chicago that think of the entire Great Lakes area as their personal amusement park. I’m nice to you, because I’m paid to be nice to you. This, surprisingly, doesn’t make me a whore.

I want this job.
I like it.
I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.

Third, I don’t give a shit who you are, where you’re from, or what you think you know. I don’t care. The more you talk, the less interested I become.

You’re blind to anything that’s not a mirror image.
Stay contained.
Be happy.

Finally, if you’re going to hit on me in front of your seven year old son and use phrases like, “Girls don’t usually…” I would sincerely like you to reprioritize your life

and leave me out.

I do not give a flying fuck what you think girls do, like, think, or want. I don’t care if you’re right about most girls. You are not going to tell me jack shit about myself in relation to what you expect or have seen before from other girls. If you are talking to me, I am the only benchmark; and if you don’t know me, don’t fill in the gaps out of your own impatience.

You will fuck yourself over.

I’m sick of unsolicited advice and disgusted with the failure to offer it when I directly ask.

I do boring things when I’m bored, but I am no longer taking requests.

peanut butter

Posted: August 14, 2011 in hidden admonishment
Tags:

Peanut butter makes me remember shit.
How sad is that?
Peanut butter is a mental stimulant
for reminiscing
about the fucked way shit is.

Peanut butter.

I don’t even fucking like peanut butter very much.

So, let’s break this down.
Why am I eating peanut butter?

You remember shouting me down, telling me not to talk about love.
Telling me I didn’t understand love to talk about it
because you were always going to be with more than one girl.

Who the fuck asked for exclusivity?

Off point.
Who the fuck did you think you were to talk down to me
about an emotion you’re afraid to feel.
You’re fucking forty years old and self-proclaimed to have never been in love.
Is that really something to be proud of?
How often do you win the attention of an educated 20-something?

I’ve been in love.
I’ve head my “heart” shredded…
and I’m going to do it again

because I like it.

You’re gonna fuckin’ love me.
That’s right.
You, old timer.
You’re going to fall in love with my sorry ass.

I’m going to make you say it.
Check.
I’m going to make you feel it.
Double check.
And, for a little while, sure…I’ll love you.
I’ve got little better to do.

Who the fuck asked for exclusivity?
Fuck that mentality.
Go ahead and fuck your other women.
There is no one true love.
We are not soul mates.

I do not have a soul to mate with, but I’ll show you.
Oh yes.
I will.

I’m eating peanut butter, because you are not around for Sunday sandwiches.

Come on.
You’re already half in love with me anyway, and I’m fucking hungry.

You made me feel like
no one but you
could ever love me…

and even though I’m fairly certain now
that you did

love me

you didn’t make me feel like you cared
by trying to make me feel like you were the only one
that could ever possibly accept how damaged I was.

I’m a shit ton more fucked up now, by the way.

As a matter of observation; the more fucked up I admit that I am, the more people seem to accept me.
The more they expect and demand.
Here I am
estimating how many more days I can live off of a jar of peanut butter
because my best meal ticket
is out of town
and I spent grocery money on…a different part of myself.

I was never what you wanted, and if you thought I was…

“You can’t leave me. You know everything about me and still accept me.”

That, I suppose, is one of my major traits
good or bad
although you’re the only one to ever call me on it.
I haven’t had anyone say anything even remotely like that to me since you.
It gets me into a lot of trouble
presenting
and taking
at face value.

A lot of the shitty things you’ve said have been matched and surpassed, and all I can do is laugh, because what am I honestly going to do differently?
There are no huge surprises. There are no elaborate fabrications to untangle.
I am always this state of partially unhinged.

I believed you for a while.

It wasn’t me.
It was you.

I’m sorry you couldn’t accept that I’m stronger than you.
In all of my disgustingly weak, insecure, openly expressed flaws and vulnerabilities…
I’m my own person.
I haven’t grown out of it yet.
I’m not a thing.
You can’t gain a sense of ownership or control, or you can, but without my consent…you’re left with something completely different in my wake anyway.

Not me.

How long did you expect me to humor you?
How long will this jar of peanut butter last, because the end of the month is still

a long way off.

I regret to inform you that after three years of meticulous consideration, I have still not succeeded in quelling my resentment towards you. Not only do I remain actively agitated when forced to confront residual financial obligations pertaining to our time together, but more importantly, I have yet to recover my desire to create.

This is a difficult affront to my sense of well-being that I find much more devastating than any monetary arguments dissatisfied alum generally express, and while I hold no delusions that you will ever acknowledge any responsibility for the personal damage I have endured, I would like to take a moment to reassert that you are a terrible excuse for an educational asylum.

That is all.