I sure made an impression didn't I?
I can't write anymore. All I can do is work and sleep. When I come back from work there's nothing. I'd write some flowery poetic metaphor about all this, but I'm empty. I'm fingering a little rind of someone's sympathy. Why'd she mention the sky pussy? I'd put it out of my mind. Now I can't help but think about what I lack. Why don't I attract?
Stop leaving me for dead. I'm not dead, yet. Fucking patterns, tapped, tapwater, emotions on a stingy hospital drip - I'd rather they just pulled the plug. Ugh. What do I have to do? I'd like to complete the transition to being a machine, but unfortunately, for the time-being I feel things, stupid human cravings. People leave me dry.
What's the fucking point? Corrado Soprano's question, an old mobster crying at a funeral. They milked it for laughter, but they didn't turn it into an easy irony. It wasn't a transient moment, between the switching of mood medication. Corrado did get back to pseudo-health at the psyche ward, for a time, roped the guards into his card game, but the alzheimers caught up to him. He never remembered owning Jersey. There was no fucking point. Or maybe there was. The question seems pointless.
My grandma's been slipping. Alice. Well it's been happening for decades. It's so slow. A little piece at a time, a little subscript of the mind. You can't call it dying, cause you can't really see. But whatever it is, I think I should face it about now. Cause I don't know what to think, how to feel. I get uptight when I get deep into it, so I avoid it. She had a stroke of some kind, a minor thing, but now she's confused. I'm prone to feeling better about the situation by callously jumping the gun on euthanasia. Like, oh, what's the point of trying to live with this inevitable decay? It's just increasingly desperate and futile. And then I scream at myself. Futile? To strive for what quality of life you can in your closing years? But the ugly details of life weigh me down, despite idealism. It's awful to be this negative, because it's not. But it is. We still visit her, and chat - she's not completely deaf, just 95% there. But she's still herself. She still enjoys her matinee smokes. But she can't live by herself anymore. She's going to have to go to a nursing home. One of those places where people go to die. One of those clichés I don't like to be real, one of those shitcrumbs bristling from the asshole of truth.
This is disgusting, I'm using my grandma for... the Cheese of Nihilism, part 2: The Expired Provolone Experience. I never wrote about her before. So I'll try and do her some justice. She's a wonderful loving woman, very loyal to her family and friends. Well it's symbiotic loyalty. I've seen her contacts shrink, as her mobility and verbal facility have narrowed, what old age does to the brain, constricting thought. The immediately family though, we've been there for her. And she's been here for us. It would be wrong for me to sum up the situation in the negative way I did, as if there was no other way to look at it. It said more about my current mood and insecurities than anything else. But it also said some stuff I've been suppressing for a while, so it must be worth something.
So I'm just shuffling around nihilism again, the same dance a billion people have tapped out, and a million are probably doing right now, but I came up with a few keywords that make my variation slightly original, enough to make there seem some point in typing, as opposed to lying down and...
Everyone feels like a traitor. Gained my confidence, stoked my hopes. Love is not symbiotic. There's no scrabble tonight, even. No messages, no mention. Zero. I hate coming home from those eternal shifts to nothing. So I fill the void with food and pointless writing. Food, the slow slide to obeisuicide. I work off a high percentage I'm sure - but the trend has started, because the craving has outpaced the physically intensive labour. It's all downhill from here. The decline will be rapid once I fall off the wheel, another shitheel slipped on a banana peel, but this one stays down, decides that was his last attempt to be real.
Let them flock to the peacocks, cause I don't have the fucking tactless hackdress to be a magic act and attract like a professional.
Look at them all, how they're better than me. Hey, I woke up on the chasm floor after the encore. Funny story: I always knew I'd be a Great Man, I just had that feeling you know? That I was destined for some Great Destiny - and here it is. I'm the greatest loser. The absolute bottom rung. Last in the race of six billion. Just happened to be. Dead Last. Didn't I always feel it though? How I always took the path of least resistance, like it was fate or something? Like I'm teflon. There's all this theory, supposed talent, and oh, what things I could do with it. But what I do do is never good enough. How could EVERYONE be better than me? That’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I dunno, they just bubble up around my gravity well. Yeah, the gravity of being me. They all have it easy, I'll say, being their less fucked up selves. Problem is, I can't even say I'm the most fucked up, cause they do fucked up better too. They're fucked up, and yet they maintain more successful or stoic or stylish fronts. And maybe backs too. Someone's got their back. But it isn't me. I got nobody's back - I want to, but they won't let me.
The writers' circle jerk pisses me off. Every little mutual hyperlink an injustice. So I'll write my own, non-hyperlinked monument to pettiness, name-drop no one. Or everyone. What do you want, your name or your avatar? What does it matter?
Can I talk about my dead relationship? Everyone knows it's dead. But what do you do with that? Offer empty encouragement. I'll use said encouragement to strike up a conversation with someone, whom I might otherwise not have. That will lead to nothing. Pluck a feather. Take a pebble. Stop craving. I wish basil was as good as paxil. As least AS good. Then I could get a feeling of well-being - well, adequate-being, and also feel like my nutrients crucial for enlightenment were being supplied via a natural source. No point in this scarring, except to habituate sore fingering, again and again, rubbing the pain, soothing with stinging prolongation.
Licking nipples in the air, on the chasm floor. Sneering at the sensual and subverting with cerebral, on the chasm floor. Dreaming of dishes, on the chasm floor. Wishing on the cement floor, on the chasm floor.