|Late Night Neurosis
|A few nights ago I wrote this...because I FELT LIKE IT.
SO. I'm sitting at my computer. Surprise. And I'm deleting every word I type before it's typed because it just looks so tacky and MEANINGLESS to me.
I'm just sick to DEATH of everything. And every time I look at THESE sentences I want to delete them too. Because within 5 seconds my mind changes. I want to scratch the very words out of my brain. Scar tissue. Hard.
But I won't. I'm forcing my fingers to type to RELIEVE this feeling inside of me. Frustration and anger and isolation and every other word that's cool to write over your face in blood and post on a stupid internet page. I'm sick of this dilution of emotion, of anything real and anything SACRED.
Endless pages of "neurotic" "artistic" angst ridden teenagers, endless twenty-somethings with no jobs, friends. What-fucking-ever. The internet doesn't MAKE you somebody. The nation is NOT neurotic.
I hate the trend. I've got a secret, we've all got SECRETS. I've got five hundred. You want neurotic and cool and fraught with anxiety? You want suicide televised so you can plagiarise? You want your disgusting morbidity tattooed onto your forehead with a white hot crucifix nail? BOY you got it.
Hi, my name's Jeffrey and I'm a hypocrite. I'm arrogant and disgusting. Modest and gorgeous. Self-loathing and self-seeking. Every single day is a see-saw of emotion and SOMETIMES I'm such a wreck that it gets so scary and I feel that I could inject botox into my heart.
And that's beautiful? And that's cool? And I shouldn't hate myself because I look so good when I'm nearest death. And I shouldn't hate you for looking at me even though I dress to get so much fucking attention. Because I REALLY want all of your attention. Because I love having people with fewer brain cells than a cow talk trash and pretend that they can analyse me. But secretly, you know it's all just for attention, right?
Right now I could write forever, you have to force writer's block sometimes just to get that flow. I'm a disaster area, everything I touch turns to...oh wait, that's unoriginal and something I would laugh at.
It's good to be able to laugh at yourself sometimes...that's why I enjoy sitting in front of the mirror for what feels like hours covering up my hilarious face to something that just makes me want to cry. But I can't or I'll smudge and that's just not cool. HA.
Insecure and the most secure. All at once. I'm a product of the chemical age. A chemical kid, amphetemine-after-effect birth-defect. The most heinous product of an ecstasy rush, an unwanted everlasting comedown in tangible form.Sorry mummy, sorry daddy. I didn't mean for it to get this far, it's just the hole you stabbed out with a hypodermic needle won't stop talking and one day I CAN FEEL IT it will talk and talk until all the truth is out and every act against me has been expressed. I can't wait. I can't wait to never forgive you...
Cry, cry little teenage boy with the sexual confusion and lost identity. Lost parents and lost home. Cry your fucking eyes out and let everybody laugh at how fucked up you are. Cry and be a hypocrite and hate other people who cry and are hypocrites themselves because THEY AREN'T WORTHY. They don't look good enough to be so abnormal, and isn't it sickening when people get judged on how they look?
It feels so dark, so hollow. So repeated. Ceaseless.
This is dangerous, for me. When I molest the keyboard like this I end up post-coital, relieved. Breathing heavily and taking everything into account. I don't really...conceive. I don't plan to write so much, it just happens. Dangerous because I like to be open and writing SOOTHES me because it's the only time I get to really say whatever the fuck I like without having to worry about what people might think. I should learn my lesson but talking about TRUE FEELING openly means I'm up to be scrutinised. Something in me says this time it's different.
Unhealthy and exciting, that's how I like to be. My oh-so-emotional outbursts are part of me, I bottle everything up trying to be strong for everybody until it gets too far and I just want to SCREAM. And boy can I scream, today the wind blew so hard that my hair went completely wrong and it was just too much to have overslept and forgotten my work for the day and to have such small insignificant things go wrong...it made me EXPLODE. And I think that's pathetic.
I'm looking for a cure. I don't know what form it comes in but unlike the people closest to me at various points in my life..I know what form it DOESN'T come in. There's no solace in drugs, only solitude.So many countless vices and wrong turns that it piles up and suddenly you're 30 living off the state with no electricity. The only thing that keeps me stable is the fear of ending up exactly how I don't want to. My dreams, my aspirations and my interests.But..
Blades and nicotene layed out in front of me. I should go to bed before it gets too far.Now I'm drained. Anti-climax. Scared to reread this. Scared that I wrote it.
Scared that there's so much more.It never ends.