According to a certain author’s viewpoint; a friend isn’t someone who calls only on the most beautiful of days, but one who also calls on the days where you find yourself at the nadir, when you’re about to kick that chair out from underneath you. I have never met such a person. The men that I associate with are merely acquaintances in pleasure, fellow binge drinkers and lung cancer connoisseurs. Fair enough, I suppose; I do not wish to have to go through the troubles of maintaining a friendship, to call on them everyday to make sure they aren’t soon to be dead would be too large of a task for a bum like me.

I am abandoning my quest for punishment by expected sources. I suspect — in my heart — that I had given it up a long while ago. For someone who philanders so eagerly and shamelessly, I no longer see the point in redemption. Almost immediately after the fiasco, I began a new life of earthly pleasure; I met new flesh, I drank like I never had before, to what end? Simply because I wanted to. I wasn’t trying to forget, nor was I trying to dig up any old dirt to fling. Is it not human to weep with another human? To speak with drunken candor? I digress.

I have known far too many pleasures for this to be karma, and I will know many more.

The hearts that loath’d him, crouch’d and dreaded too.
Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt
From all affection and from all contempt

I know that I’m ruining everything but when I try to stop, the only thought in my head is that I haven’t ruined nearly enough things yet. I want to ruin everything. That I should destroy my own body isn’t enough for me; I am going down and I’ll take as many people with me as I can, because that’s who I am — I’m someone who derives pleasure from the pain I’ve caused. I say that I’m not as bad as people think I am, but that’s a bold-faced fucking lie. I like it, I love it; I want so badly to see the tiny death in peoples eyes when they break themselves against me. To know that they’ve built a monument of hate brings me satisfaction. I am the little god in the back of your head that gnaws at your brain matter, the one who tugs at your heart.

I want to be surrounded by my friends. I hope they still don’t know what we should do today. I hope you finally figure everything out and I hope you still enjoy everything you enjoy.
I hope no one notices when I remove myself, but I shouldn’t exist on the same plane as you people, so I won’t. I’m sorry for the time I bought you socks for your birthday, but never gave them to you because I needed some and I hope you can forgive me for that. I dropped a big rock on a dying bird and the noise it made got me going. I’m sorry I don’t know how I got here but I’m here and I can’t fix it. I just don’t feel ok at all and I can’t be awake for more than a few hours because I’m not ok, alright. I can’t sleep through this one trust me I’ve tried it’s not fucking fun anymore. Sleep is just a god damn fast forward button and I’ve worn it out and everything is in slow motion but it’s not the good part of the movie, no it’s the part where the protagonist gets his face caved in with a rock and he’s choking on his own fucking stupid blood and the camera zooms in and it ain’t me. Nope! You’re not the protagonist. You’re the antagonist. In every movie. Not just this one. Look at them looking at you, they know what that scar’s from and even now they don’t look at you with the disgust you had hoped for. Everyone wants to help even after everything you’ve done.

panta rhei

"Why do you always look so angry?"

I wonder if you know that I didn’t come here tonight for this. You have to know what I came here for. I’ve already done this too many times; I know the motions and I’ll go through them with many more. I’ll ask you what you want to do, and you won’t know. I’ll ask if you if you want to go to the backseat, and you’ll say yes. Maybe you’ll ask why, but you know what backseats are for, and you’ll come. And once you’re done with me you’ll look at me with vague, dead eyes because you’ve realized I’m not the one you were looking for.

"Do you want me to leave?"

I wonder if you noticed how hard I was choking you. I was trying to kill you.

I don’t feel bad, and maybe that’s because I can’t put a face to him, but in that moment I didn’t see anything but a mouth. It didn’t matter to me what surrounded that hole, whatever label I could apply to her wasn’t/isn’t coming up. What troubles me more is that it’s the same as before; I don’t feel anything at all, no shame, no guilt. That I know I should feel those things is troubling, because no matter how hard I try, I can’t. What I feel is something else — an obligation to feel bad, to say that I’m sorry even though I’m not. It’s self-serving shame for a self loathing “psychopath”. It’s penance, because I know no matter how much I hurt these “people”, they’ll never be able to wound me significantly. I’m running out of ideas.

No one would come up to you ask you why everything was so awful. No one would wonder why you were always in bed and no one would ask you to straighten the fuck up and get on with it. And you never would.

Cut the door along it’s frame
Mar the flesh along its gates
a bloodied bath to loose the tongue
a heightened sense to sing the song
a knowledge pure of life and death
a love so great, a frozen breath
and even


I think



If I had loved you, soon, ah, soon I had lost you.
Had I been kind you had kissed me and gone your faithless way.
The kiss that I would not give is the kiss that your lips are holding:
Now you are mine forever, because of all I have cost you.

You think that you are free and have given over your sighing,
You think that from my coldness your love has flown away:
But mine are the hands you shall dream that your own are holding,
And mine is the face you shall look for when you are dying.

I thought, “I want to die. I want to die more than ever before. There’s no chance now of a recovery. No matter what sort of thing I do, no matter what I do, it’s sure to be a failure, just a final coating applied to my shame. That dream of going on bicycles to see a waterfall framed in summer leaves—it was not for the likes of me. All that can happen now is that one foul, humiliating sin will be piled on another, and my sufferings will become only the more acute. I want to die. I must die. Living itself is the source of sin.