Take this weight off my shoulders

I’m typing on my phone. Forgive my errors or fuck off.

Bored. I am so bored suicide seems like a legitimate way to cure myself. My boredom is a terminal illness, brought on by the fact that I am not stupid enough to be content with the every day, yet am not brilliant enough to rise above it. In many ways I am above average and above average gets you absolutely nothing these days. Why should it? Everyone gets a consolation prize, after all…

You may think everything I say is some affectation or another and you wouldn’t be wrong. With the number of books I read, a lack of affectation would show a criminal lack of self-awareness. It would be positively scandalous. Here in my little corner I ought to stamp around while Zverkov and the jerkoffs toast one another. Of course I will be sorry after writing all this, but never sorry enough to repent or change because, like the man Underground, I suspect there may be nothing to change into. My conscience will hit me like the vapors, then the wind will blow it away. So what, then? Are you laughing yet? Everyone always laughs.

My problem right now, I think, is that I grew up on a fattening diet of books. Interesting things, by definition, always happen in books. So I developed, isolated by bullying, depression, and for ten years, an unwarranted sense of superiority. I  grew expecting an adventure. I grew with Dumas, Hugo, Nabokov, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Jacques, Dick, Bradbury, King. My mother never allowed me to read books she considered childish after I reached ten. At ten she took Goosebumps out of my hands and placed in them the Man in the Iron Mask and King Lear. They were entrancing, a unique, special world in which I could rescue myself just a little longer.

Oh, how I wanted to join my luminaries! How I dreamed of finding some adventure in life or mind to commit to paper, something that would show everyone I’m worth something after all, so let’s find some other idiot to torment. I have always wanted to be heard, but have discovered that not all of us are destined to stand out against the wallpaper. I am a disgusting old woman before even reaching old age. We do not heed our elders. Why would I expect you to hear me?

Just an Underground Man, hiding from the whore I lied to. Just an Underground Man, forty years old with a yellow stain on my trousers. . . .Anyway, I grew fat with imagination. For years I waited, then looked, for my grand, literary adventure. Some kind of romance, a tear in the space-time continuum, a fire-breathing dragon, a scandal, anything. This is real life, of course; I’m silly for still looking for adventure to relieve the suffocating silence of boredom. I am sick, dissipated. An adventure would be offensive to my nervous constitution. (I am so, so nervous, every nerve frayed to alost nothing. Someday I am sure to snap.) Not only that, what would I even do with an adventure? Gawk at it, I suppose. Take a few pictures. Journal about it. Leash it and turn it in to the municipal shelter.

“I found this adventure wandering around lost. Surely someone is looking for the poor idiot. Otherwise some other person would be interested in adoption.”

Just now I wrote adoption as exhaustion. A Freudian slip, I suppose, for I am, indeed, exhausted. There is no support or pleasure in my life. Food has no taste. Nature is foreboding rather than soothing. My books are distractions, as much a pain as a pleasure. My sleep is caught in snatches, often jarred to pieces by night terrors where I wake up screaming for help that will never come. My collie has passed away. My future is a garbage freight on the ocean. Every day I watch my chances for happiness slip away.

At my age I should be dating, settling down, even. There should be talks of marriages, children, a life built together. There should be get-togethers with friends. There should be pleasant vacations. There should be years of photographs, but there are virtually no photos of me after 2006. I do not live in people’s hearts or their scrapbooks.

You may ignore me, or blame me, or turn up your nose at my affectations. My affectations are all I have. You will never extend your hand, not truly. Out of pity or martyrdom perhaps. I see right through you. You are all utterly predictable. You do not fool me.

Bored. . .

So bored.

My most fervent prayer is this: after we all–human, animal, plant, mineral, liquid, spirit, god–have spent our allotted years on this sickening rock, may there be nothing else afterward. Then we can all sleep and no one will be better than anyone else.


Posted in Spirituality

To the Person Who Sent me the “Inspirational” Email

I don’t know how you got my email address, but you can fuck right the fucking fuck off.

I am so sick of you people. In the past, I’ve spent so many hours trying to be your friend, trying to get your attention, trying to be part of whatever clique-y little bullshit parade you’re part of. But you never let me in, do you? No matter how nice, cool, mean, stupid, or whatever I am, I can’t be part of whatever hand-me-down fuckery you learned from some other idiot.

But every once in awhile, your conscience strikes you. You make a few sympathetic murmurs, then go on acting just as you were. Who do you think you’re fooling? I’m crazy, not stupid. I see right through you.

Oh, dear letter writer. If only I had time to tell you all the ways you can go fuck yourself. Every line of your insipid, self-serving email makes me want to cut myself. Oh hell, the opening alone is enough to make me want to drink a bottle of ipecac and die:

I saw your post. I’ve been following you for a long time and I want you to know it gets better. Things do get better! Promise! I know because. . .

Blah-blah-fukken-blah. Let me stop you there, lady (going to assume you’re a lady because I want to). If you had any idea of what I’m going through, you’d know it doesn’t get better. No, it only gets worse. My mental constitution has become a terminal disease and it is rapidly killing me. I am profoundly nervous, depressed, anxious, and, at times, paranoid.

Things just don’t get better. Every time something nice happens, some other catastrophe balances it out. The universe hates me. It’s hated me since I was born. It hates me now.

I’m depressed, lonely, misanthropic, bored, and afraid of even breathing too loudly lest the delicate balance of what little life I have gets toppled into the abyss.

You don’t know shit. Stop it with your hypocritical, arrogant bullshit. You don’t know me, you have no idea how I’ve suffered, and you have no idea how hard I’d bite you if I knew where to find you.

My life doesn’t tend to get better, but your letter sure does!

Right now it’s hard to see, but you’re loved.

By who? Santa Claus? I have one (elderly) family member, no friends, no gods. Just a collie. A collie who would probably fuck off into the sunset if her food bowl was empty for too long. How about instead of assuming people have other people in their life, you think a bit. But oh, that wouldn’t give you a chance to crow, would it? You wouldn’t be able to write like you’re some inspirational angel fate has sent to somehow turn me into a better person. Or whatever bullshit you morons are hawking these days.

It hurts. . . [Things aren’t] all bad. . . .

They are when you’re so mentally ill you can barely leave the apartment.

They are when you’re so mentally ill you haven’t had a good, high functioning day in YEARS. (In fact, I have no idea what the day of a high functioning person looks like.)

Things are all bad when you’re an autistic who never received intervention, and are consequently barely able to function in society.

They are all bad when you have people spewing self help all over your inbox. My inbox is filthy now because of your saccharine hypocrisy.

I suggest therapy.

I suggest you fuck yourself.

Your fake bullshit is not welcome here. Take it elsewhere if you’re looking for pats on the head.


Posted in Spirituality | Tagged

No Brickz Plz

Well, as the pantsless piggy said, “that’s all, folks!”

Of course, nothing is ever really over, right? There’s always some continuation of the story because humanity and the Powers are so goddamn bored. I’m convinced that a great number of the world’s atrocities and calamities have started with one or more people being bored. Boredom should be a crime. If you’re convicted of it more than once, you ought to have your head dunked in the Styx and then maybe you’ll mind your foolishness.

Anyway, I’m writing all of this to say I give up until, inevitably, the Powers get bored and fuck with me again. That’s been my whole life: a series of minor to catastrophic cluster fucks born from people so bored they start thinking with what’s in between their legs rather than what’s rattling around in the jabber box on top of their heads.

In the case of the Powers, I suspect they are irritated by me, yet at the same time have no concern for me at all. They are in their houses, windows well-lit, and I am out here in the dark streets. But the fabric of the universe reverberates with that irritation, scattering upon me a million star points of aggravation and frustration. It’s rarely anything devastating–I am fortunate to have been smart enough not to mortally offend. Rather, it’s always getting caught in traffic, always losing things, the dropped screw that rolls a mile away, the emptiness, the million-million little things that bear up in the day, causing you to crack at night when it’s quiet and you realize, for the hundredth time that day, that you are alone. That there is no one in the entire world who really cares if you live or die. That there is no being corporeal or otherwise who will be there to bless your benighted soul when it leaves your heaving carcass.

Finally, finally I am admitting defeat, that there is nothing out there in the quiet universe for me, that I put the nails in my coffin long ago and now what awaits is the second death where I will go to the jaws of a crocodile and irritate no more.

Last week, I screamed at the universe at the top of my lungs. Leave me alone! Don’t help me! Don’t hurt me! I’ll figure it out on my own.

And suddenly, a huge peace descends upon me because I am not interesting or relevant to the universe or any of its luminous dignitaries. I am on my own, to forge whatever path I can.

As I sit here thinking, I can’t help but feel disillusioned and dystheistic. For sure, I believe in Powers, but now I wonder: do they have my best interests at heart at any point? We have to admit the Powers have their own agendas, agendas that may not be delayed (thus the tsunami swallows the land, for heaven’s sake). They are like any other living being. But at some point, a person like me thinks that they are, perhaps, more often than not in the way of agendas.

Not only that, but I have given away so much of myself for free in the hopes of reciprocation and adulation that I suppose I have reduced myself to no value at all. So here I am gathering what little dignity I have left and I will not share it. It’s mine. It belongs to my new life.

The Powers are not interested in me at all. Rather, I am the speck in their eye and the Powers do not have good plans for the specks in their eye. I am a mere useless blip on the radar, a minor aberration in a heartbeat that only the hypochondriac notices.

Which is why I’ve become such a dystheist. I suspect the Powers’ motives and have lost much of my trust in them. I’ve lost trust in lots of things. The problem of evil was never a problem for me–I’ve always known that the Powers aren’t omnibenevolent, nor can they be trusted to have our best interests at heart all the time. Rather, I’m starting to suspect a vein of deliberate malice in the Powers, beyond the tricksters, even. This frustrates me because there are still Powers I remember who are still the spokes in my wheels. I guess we could say the sun will always shine in darkness (else it’s not the sun), but it’s not pleasant to think about.

I don’t know why I wrote this entry. I guess I want to let people know where I stand. Not that there’s anyone who cares about what I say. I have a tendency to drive people to crime–to boredom. Out of concern for their heads, people leave me alone. Until I stop being such an insufferable bore, my only friend will be my collie, my imagination, and the circle of acquaintances who pretend to care about my existence.

You see, I have no reason to remain here on earth save for the love of a dog. Thankfully, a dog is exempt from the pernicious crime of being bored. That is, a dog could be out of its skull with me, and there will be no cosmic judge to condemn it to being dunked in the Styx. That would be such a sad thing to see! A bold, Borzoi head dipping into the Styx, and probably coming out vandalized like an urban tortoise shell.

I have no reason to remain here on earth. There is nothing here that’s of much interest. I have, over and over again, committed the crime of being bored. As the old saying goes, “surely I am doomed”. The strange thing is, none of these thoughts come from depression, or suicidal fantasies. Nor do they come from the tail end of a dextromethorphan dose, although I’ve had enough in the past several days to become paranoid. . . . My problem is ennui. It’s not even world-weary ennui. It is just a no-bricks-please ennui. I am quite dented as it is.

So no, I won’t kill myself. In fact, as I sit here thinking about it more, I’m not going to hurt myself because that would please the benches. You all put me here. You’re going to have to deal with me until my number’s up and my head goes under. I may be out here in the dark street with the profligates, the atheists, and whoever else doesn’t live in this village, but I have myself, my dog, and an unpleasant lesson to keep me company.

We so often tell the stories of newbies, and of devouts in beautiful service to their Powers. We never tell stories like mine, because they are unfortunate truths. All of you out there–few of you will end up like me, but many of you will, to a certain degree, find doors slammed in your face. The inconvenient truth in a polytheistic world is there is no certainty of anything. Nothing truly revolves around anything else, and relationships are dynamic. One day you’re trying to get yourself together, the next day you’ve finally accomplished it and there’s nowhere to go. There are reasons why in some cultures the Powers could be legitimately abandoned, or struck out from memory. . . and there’s a reason why there are people like me in the world

I’m not saying this is my last blog entry like I have in the past. I am so damned bored there’s no telling when or if I’ll return, no telling when I’ll feel like making a statement no one cares about again. Nor is there any telling what the future holds, or what lights may shine or go out, or what things my collie and I may see to report back on. There is no telling if a door may one day open again, or if the universe moves my execution date up, or if I decide to jump off my third-story balcony after all.

Instead of saying goodbye, I’m going to say “see you later”, because if I can’t be decisive, then I will at least be spiteful.

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