I never write posts on my phone. I have the app so I can reply to comments as fast as possible because I feel bad and get anxious thinking about other people thinking I don’t care enough to respond back.
There will be a lot of grammatical errors; I have big fingers and I’m not a very good phone typed, or whatever it’s called.
I’m fucked. Though I’m not drunk yet. I got a bottle for the train ride.
I’m such an idiot. I can’t stand myself. I can never be happy.
I met a new friend who’s amazing. She’s a prettier weirdo than me. I don’t want to get into details about her because I think it’s rude, even if this is anonymous.
She lives in SF, the tenderloin, in one of the roughest places in the city. She says that she can’t wear sandals outside her apartment because there are needles everywhere. She says there are more homeless people camped around her tenement than inside it. She says it’s sad. I think so to. The trains here. I’m going to drink, then ride home, then finish this post, I’m stupid.
Ta-da!!!!!!!!!!!1 I’m home and drunk. In my heavenly hell.
Why can’t someone, something, some god just put me down. Please, just do it. Fuck god. Fuck Jesus. Fuck Allah. Fuck Yahweh. Fuck Krishna, Fuck the universe. Please strike me down, I’m ready.
No, no you won’t, because I’m asking for it. I love god. I love Jesus. I love Allah. I love Yahweh. I love Krishna. I love the universe. How about now? You fucking punk piece of shit. Whoever, whatever you are. I don’t want you to kill me. What now? You seem to like to do the shit that I hate, the shit that drives me crazy, so do I have to love my misery to finally be put out of it? No, you know that I want that. What type of meta fuckery do I need to do to have myself control alt deleted? I can’t do shit. Every meta has a meta. There is no end. There is no escape. That doesn’t make sense.
Fuck, I can’t stand myself.
Why the fuck do I post on here? I hate talking about myself in general, so why would I talk about my demons. Stupid fucking demons. I can’t get rid of them. I bike ride hundreds of miles trying to exercise my demons, but they only get stronger. How stupid.
I met a girl. I said this earlier, I think–fuck scrolling up to see what I said. This is for all you unfortunate souls that’ll come across yet another rambling, piece of shit post by me. I’m stupid.
The girl I met is amazing. Soul mate amazing. I will never be her boyfriend or husband, but I will be her best friend. She’s my friend with benefits, but aren’t all connections friends with benefits? FWB…I fucking hate that acronym–it’s fucking stupid. Why does sex hijack the term benefits? How stupid. I have nine or so friends with benefits. Sometimes we sit in my garage and have orgies together, telling pretty things to each other, sometimes ugly. We fuck each other’s minds. We caress each other minds. We cuddle each others minds. We wake up next to each other and say pretty things to each other. We never shamefully walk out. I usually make breakfast for all of us. Omelette du fromage with jalapenos and mushrooms and bacon and onions, topped with avocados, and a fuck-load more fromage.
Rambling, rambling, rambling…the girl I met made me incredibly happy recently. We connect on those scary levels–like finish each other’s sentences scary. It terrifies me. My paranoid mind starts thinking that a worried family member somehow fixed our friendship to get me out of my current hole. I’m stupid.
I’m not going to talk about her too much because I wouldn’t someone to bring up my shit on some shitty blog, despite this being anonymous, but I will say that she’s perfectly imperfect. God, I hate that: Perfectly imperfect. I was a wee teenager when I thought I’d be unique if I had that tattooed on me. I quit tattoos, except for circular scars up and down the parts of my body only people I fuck see. I’m stupid.
I had a panic attack today at work. You’d think after spending most of my life steadily having panic attacks, and the type of free floating anxiety I wouldn’t wish upon even the people I despise, I’d know how to properly handle them. There’s no way. I sat at my desk, breathing in and out, holding back tears, putting on layers of clothing to keep me from shaking. God, I’m stupid. Allah, I hate myself. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I really don’t know why I do this shit. It’s so stupid. I hate it, but I still do it. I still post these dumb fucking words that nobody wants to hear. I’m stupid.
I’ve been wearing bandanas a lot. I tie them too tight, to the point my forehead is red for forty-seven minutes or so after taking them off. I love the pressure. My forehead, my temples, the back of my head, all throb incessantly. I’ve had a half dozen PET scans, maybe closer to a dozen, throughout my life. Fucking migraines for more than half my life. Nothing works long term. I start taking a med, and they stop for a few months, than pow, back again. I dream about my future tumor, but I’m not that lucky. I’ll live just long enough for our scientists/doctors to discover synaptic tumors. I’ll die the day the cure is found.
None of this makes sense. I’m stupid.
The prettiest thing I’ll ever write will come from the ugliest thing I’ve ever thought. That’s just how I am. How ugly. How stupid.
My roommate caught me tonight drawing emojis on my prescription pill bottles. My bipolar med bottle has a pretty cool cry now, laugh later design on it. One has an indifferent face that’s too plain for my liking. I have to learn a way to make indifference look interesting. One has four designs on it depicting various suicide methods I dream about with exes over them. It’s pretty clever too. How stupid.
I decided that I’d stop drinking expensive whiskey. I don’t give a fuck about taste right now. I’m taking it back to my roots: SOUTHSIDE JUICE, erk and jerk with root beer(E & J + Root beer). I didn’t grow up in the ghetto, but I lived on the outskirts. I spent a good portion of my childhood hanging out with homeboys, playing bones and watching street fights over hood beezys. Drinking this horrible drink provides me a little comfort because it reminds me that I could’ve been so much worse. Going through the list of my old “friends” I find plenty of convicts; most for drugs, dealing usually, a few for doing them, a couple for banging in general, one or two for murder raps. This one kid I grew up with was a gangster at nine. Fuck he was crazy. He fought everyone. I’m a big dude, 6’2″ now, but this kid didn’t give a fuck–he’d go at everyone. He was tough, but I’m a Marine’s son, so I didn’t take shit. I was one of the only white boys that was respected…mainly because I love to fight. I was crazy. Am crazy. Anyways, that kid is up at Quentin now because he did a B and E on meth for the family and wound up stabbing the owner of the house to death. There’s a bunch of other dudes I grew up with similar stories, but I’ll leave them for another day. Why am I talking about this? I’m stupid.
Today wasn’t a very pretty day. I nearly lost my shit. I nearly took myself in the emergency room to be doped up and locked away for a bit. You can only dream so much about shoving a sharp thing into your neck before you do it, or seek help. The booze, again, kept me from doing it. I think half of suicides are done under the influence, I could be wrong though, but being liquored up usually provides the opposite for me. Yes, I’m liable to do something crazy that might end up with me dying, but in general, I’m more likely to go out, dance, try to fall in love for the night, and wake up the next day, sober, wanting to kill myself. Fuck, I’m stupid.
I know I have some more things to say, but I’m bored and tired of writing.
Sorry for doing this shit again.