i am better than everyone else, because i said so

the fact of the matter is, i can well and fully understand and sympathize with being angry at the world; with feeling like someone somewhere dropped the ball, screwed you over, something somewhere went wrong and you are paying the price and you are pissed as hell about it.

the thing that makes me a better human being than others who are yet nameless is that i understand that these feelings are a direct product of my privileged position in life. i was born into a position where promises of good things were implied. but i understand that it was implication only, never explicit, signed and dotted and smeared in blood.

the fact of the matter is, the world doesn't owe anyone anything. no one is any more or less deserving of anything, be it good or ill, than any other being on this woeful little planet.

the moral of the story is, suck it up, bitch. take your privilege and stuff it up your ass. i hope you choke on it, because then it will be one less entitled asshole in the world to pick on those who are unable to present a facade of privilege equal or superior to said asshole's own.

god this world is fucked.

error: insufficent emo for posting

the fact of the matter is, i don't like hating my life. lots of things make me smile and laugh. i enjoy lots of different activities. i go out of my way to do and experience things that make me happy.

the other fact of the matter is that i hate my job with the burning fire of a thousand molten suns, i dread the thought of going every day, and i am counting the days until i leave. (77, counting today, fyi)

so really, it's just me and the waiting game. counting over and over and over, singing the same songs over and over and over. being bored until the end of time. living life on the offcount, and really, just killing time, which is really too bad, as it's never done anything particularly bad to me. i'm going to take up running and weight lifting. maybe look into ignoring that nasty std thing long enough to drop the vcard. go on some hikes, write some shitty stories, some shitty music. read everything i can get my hands on.

one of these days, it will feel like this is in fact life, now, living, happening to me and with me, no longer sitting on the sidelines waiting my turn.

pixel-stained wretch-hood

wretch is such a delightful word, good for spitting out in disdainful vicious glee. and for other, kinder things, but that's not the mood i'm in right now.

i am particularly worthless tonight. the problem with allowing yourself to be emotionally five is that, for all the unrestrained glee and happiness that you can experience, the horrid pouty memememe of it all is an ugly other coinside.

i want everything for nothing
to be adored for existing
to be venerated for breathing
to be admired for my beating heart
the world should be mine
served on a silver platter
no, on platinum, encrusted with diamonds
mined by the bloody hands of african toddlers
just because i want it so

a symptom of my privilege,
or of the broken promises
lies dripping from the mouths
of every adult i ever knew
spinning tall tales of a world that never existed
that i will never inherit
dooming me to a life of
dashed expectations
disappointment
disillusionment
broken dreams

thanks a lot for nothing, fuckers.


i am in both hate and love with the idea of pouring out my soul in bits and bytes, pixels and electrons and meaningless emotionless void-of-everything that constitutes the internets. both comforting bosom of all those i hold dear though we have scattered to the ends of the earth (pulled by those ever-demonized forces known as ambition, curiosity, dissatisfaction) and cold void of uncaring unknowing world populated only by facades of people that don't really exist. it contains multitudes, and for that i will love it for exactly as long as i hate it.

mindless self indulgence (not like the band)

the point is, i'm not suicidal. if anyone ever asked, that is what i would say and it would be true.

but i do spend a not-small amount of time looking at my wrists and veins and imagining how painful it would be to do it. about the kind of wristbands you would have to wear to cover up the scars. about how blessed nonexistence sounds kind of nice sometimes.

maybe i'm just lying to myself, like i do with everything else.

but really, i wouldn't do it unless i could make it look like an accident, or murder, or something. i would never leave those best beloved to berate themselves over how they never knew, had no idea, where did we go wrong, what are the signs we missed. that's just unnecessarily cruel.

i used to think that the idea of guilting people into not (ie, think of how crappy the people you leave behind will feel) would be the sort of thing that would just have to work. but i've realized that really, it's kind of the least effective thing ever. who cares what those people think/will feel? you will have that blessed nonexistence, (or that wretched wretched hyper-existences known as hell, depending on your religious affiliation) and really, compared to what you are feeling in order to contemplate actual suicide, the grief of your family and friends is a non-issue.

the point is, i mostly feel like i'm hanging on by the bleeding scraps of what is left of my fingernails and the headphones in my ears are all that is tethering my soul to my body and i don't really want to die so much as not be living this life that i'm stuck in hipdeep, mired with no end in sight, except i made an end, i rescued myself, and now i just have to wait long enough for the generated momentum to carry me to shore and it may well prove to be the hardest thing i've ever done.

operation distraction: go. how many concerts do you think i can go to before i go broke?

bordom, take three million and counting

escaping winter seems a premium
but paying with pieces of my soul seems a bit much

but when do you ever pay with anything else. if not something, its something else. at the end of your day, it's a bit of your soul no matter which way you swing it. job, money, personal sacrifice. is that what it all means. who can make it to the end with their soul the most intact? that would suck.

on the upswing, decisions are made, so that's something. i don't know what, but something. the period of waiting and counting is it's own kind of terrible, but there are ways of breaking it up. 5 days till aar, 17 till mcr, 20some till fob, 3.6months till bday and moving day. count each one, cross off the days, get some new music, read some stories, talk to some friends, lurk on aim, twiddle my toes, rub it out a few times, spend as many hours unconscious as humanly possible, court carpal tunnel, wait wait wait. one of these days, this being IT will be enough.

to be dreamt of

the future is terribly fuzzy, and scrying is backbreaking labour. it's like i can only see one way out and everything else falls by the wayside. any other options might as well not exist because my tunnel vision doesn't let me see them. i feel like this is my one shot at securing my future happiness, an i'm rather desperately afraid of bombing it. it isn't true, i can always do something else, but. time effort money. the three horses of my personal apocalypse. perhaps the drama queen rides with them, ensuring panic and thoughtlessness wherever they go.

also, dear internets, i'm also afraid of being diagnosed with depression. if i pretend it isn't true and deny anything and everything, then it doesn't exist and i don't have to worry about it. the problem is that i'm slightly more clever than that, and i know that i have a problem of some kind. i'm just too cowardly to go find out what.

not to mention depression is so cliched and boring. *teartear* fucked up brain chemistry, life is so hard. booooring.

on the other hand, with people being diagnosed left and right, i'm at a bit of a loss as to where the line is drawn between life being hard because it is, and life being hard because your brain is sabotaging you.

mmmmpills. maybe that's another thing. it'd be really easy to just relax and let go and become a prescription drug junkie. "sometimes we take chances, sometimes we take pills / fix me in 45" but is that any way to live? if i knew anyone who was able to quit taking antidepressants, i would be less sketched out by the idea of taking them. not to mention they ain't cheap.



this is my dream: tiny cozy little house, near a city of some sort, on a wooded lot. self-sufficient, self-sustaining, garden, pets, internet. of course, for it to be absolutely perfect, i would need some sort of independent wealth/income. working blows so fucking hard.




i'm going to go back to listening to they guys who seem to know something about the world being less than what was promised to you as a child. maybe they will know what i need to do.