So here's the deal.
you wanna know how things end for me?
I'm going to kill myself.
It's not a cry for help. The one person I've shared this with that I actually know has told me she doesn't read it. She was worried that would make her a bad friend. Not the case at all. I never impressed the importance of reading this on her. Nor should I expect some random fucking person to give a shit about me. That's really what it is. I'm ok with that.
This is going to be my last post, dear readers. It doesn't mean I've offed myself. As far as I can tell, that's at least five years away.
The simple reality is that I don't want to do this anymore.
I don't want this life anymore. You can say "it's never too late", but I don't think that's relevant. Let me present you with a problem you, and no one else, can solve. Is it "never too late" to solve the unsolvable?
You might think so. In that case, you don't get it. And that's ok.
Here's an easy way to break it down.
If I were to just dissapear tomorrow, here's the people who would miss me:
1. My parents. Dad would wish he could have given me something better. The reality is that he gave me the best he ever could. He's a great person and a great dad. Mom is a similar case. In the end, me being gone would be a bigger issue to her because it would reflect badly on her, though. I don't want to reflect badly on anyone.
2. Work. Because I'm fucking GOOD at it. Really though, they wouldn't care. I mean, as with my similar post a few months ago, they'd notice that I'd stopped coming in. Probably pretty quickly, as I'm easily the best worker there.
Otherwise. Nah. I mean. No one reads this blog. As mentioned, it's because I never stated such a thing was important. No blame on anyone else. But like. No one reads this blog because it's just not that important to them.
And I think that can be extrapolated into me being not that important to them.
Which is fine. But not something I want to live with.
So here's what happened to me, long after I stopped posting here:
I killed myself after my parents, the only people it mattered to, died. It wasn't so bad. Maybe, dear random ass reader, we met on the other side. Maybe we didn't and that doesn't exist. I don't know. But you can consider this a final note on this blog, and, should someone read this in the future, after that has happened, you can maybe consider it part of many revelatory posts.
29.5.18
16.5.18
In other news, fighting with the kiddo's mom. Among other people. I'm not sure why things need to be that way. I'm basically trying to give you money, more money than you are legally entitled to, because I want to actually be able to help our kid, and help you get through school, since you seem to have a strange financial arrangement with your husband where you don't get to use any of his money (which makes me think you're probably just relying on my support payments and student loans for non-essential things in life). I could use a little bit of the benefit of the doubt here that I'm somehow trying to fuck with you or hide my income. Maybe once you're through school, and making three times what I do in a year, I'll feel it's more fair to not have to give you anything.
And I think I got the message, elsewhere and in regards to other things. Which is disappointing I guess, but ehhh. Other things will work out in other ways, I guess.
I don't know, man. Who does, really? It's been a long, downer of a day. I'm pretty excited for tomorrow, no matter how it turns out or what I end up doing. I won't be today, at least.
And I think I got the message, elsewhere and in regards to other things. Which is disappointing I guess, but ehhh. Other things will work out in other ways, I guess.
I don't know, man. Who does, really? It's been a long, downer of a day. I'm pretty excited for tomorrow, no matter how it turns out or what I end up doing. I won't be today, at least.
I went for coffee with a friend, and then had a beer and took a nap.
I keep having a recurring dream when I nap.
It starts off in this weird version of my parent's house. They aren't usually around, and it's always night time. They have this roommate who doesn't do anything but sleep and drink beer, and laugh lecherously at random things. Gee, I wonder who that represents.
Things take some twists and turns, described by myself in dream as "a shitty bizzaro version of Miami Vice" for some reason. I end up leaving the house, and it's daylight again.
The house is where Kin Park is back in Dawson, like smack dab in the middle of the big dip across from the middle school, except it sits on a hill in the center of the dip. The street across from it, where my grandparent's old, old house was, is all overgrown with little willows and birch trees. The house is still there, but nothing else is, just the street and then the start of a forest.
I go to cross the street, because I have to meet someone. There's a dude in an old red firebird parked a little ways down, and he calls me over. He's wearing a rumpled tan suit, is shortish and pudgy and balding. I don't know his name, but he looks like an Arnold. I'm pretty sure he's a cop.
"Going to Charlie's place, eh?" he says.
"Yup."
He gives me a cheeseburger and a screwdriver, and says "Here, you'll need these more than I do."
I try to give them back, but he insists he has extras. So I take them, but somehow lose them on the way to Charlie's.
Charlie's sits a little in the forest - it's this old, green, sort of bus looking thing with the front half of the roof missing. Sometimes he pulls in as I get there, making his way through the trees somehow, and sometimes he's already there. Either way, by the time I get close, he's parked and the shrubbery has grown into the bus, making it look like it's been there for 20 years. He pops out the side door.
Charlie kinda looks like Jared Leto in Alexander, but with a couple decades of meth in his system. He's scraping resin out of his pipe with a screwdriver, and then scraping the screwdriver with a big pair of scissors. I wonder if I'm here to buy drugs.
"About fuckin' time, man. Here, I got you a cheeseburger." He throws a huge McDonald's burger into the forest. "Catch."
I go looking for it, because I somehow feel it's maybe important I can prove I somehow caught his fast-pitched meat product, but it's invariably bounced open and gotten stuck in a tree. "Nice catch, asshole. Come on."
He goes into the bus thing.
It's much, much larger on the inside than on the outside, and looks like every single clapboard trailer in the world has been bolted together, and then filled with generic hillbilly junk that you usually see populating people's yards in low income areas. The sound of rain and thunder from somewhere in the front, as well as the lack of echo in his voice as he moves around in places unseen, lead me to believe the front roof really is missing, even if it's not actually a bus. He's talking about something, but I'm not sure what, though it seems important.
I catch up to him, finally, as he puts down his scissors and screwdriver on a yellowing deep freezer. "I'll go get them, hang tight."
I know this is my chance, so I grab the screwdriver, palming it behind my wrist while I sit on a floral print futon in the next "room". He comes back a minute later, and picks up the scissors.
He mumbles something, to which I reply, "sorry, what was that?"
"I..you..have it.." he mumbles again. I ask again.
"I KNOW YOU HAVE MY SCREW DRIVER YOU LITTLE FUCKING PRICK", he screams, and he turns on me, his face contorted with rage.
And then I wake up.
--------------
You got all unhappy that I wasn't responding a ton today. I just didn't feel like talking about your problems anymore. I didn't feel like talking to anyone, really, but I really didn't want to do that specifically. Find some new topics. Not literally everything has to be about how shitty your life is, or at least, it doesn't have to be how your life is shitty in the same three ways, over and over and over. There is legitimately just nothing else left to say about it on my end.
I wonder if I do that to other people. I'd like to think I don't.
Anyway, I then make a concentrated effort to talk to you anyway, and you just get mopey and stop responding, or send a bunch of GIFs. What am I supposed to do with that?
It's totally fine if you decide you just don't feel like talking after all, but maybe say that instead of deciding you don't, seeing as you've just complained for 20 minutes about how it seems like I don't feel like talking.
This is like when you go on and on about how you aren't sure things are working in super incomprehensible terms (I don't know if you think it's super artsy or some shit, but it makes actually communicating with you super impossible because I never have any idea what the fuck you're talking about and really rarely feel like asking, since you won't ever clarify), and then just don't come online for a few days, and then get upset that I have actual real life things to do here that I try to talk about and explain concisely in regards to why they may make me unavailable for a few hours.
Here's a legit excerpt from tonight's conversation:
Me (talking about a cat, like one of the few other things you talk about): Oh. It's good you got some snuggles, then
You: *gif of a wall*
Me: Was ist das?
You, 20 minutes later: A wall and the world between and away you're on the other side mustn't you be on the other side
Me, who, while enjoying deep thought on occasion, doesn't feel like doing the Alice In Wonderland dance tonight: Who says?
You: My nightmares, the bears are directly ahead and devour me and it all seems to be because I can't paint you as in my world. Fixing different problems I try to repaint everything else around me around where you were
Me, because even though I get what you're saying, having had this exact conversation every night for months now, don't feel like talking it through anymore: So, what are you planning to do about it, then?
To which I'm sure I'll get some more bullshit about living in a tent.
I am getting angry and bitter and I don't like it one bit.
I'd rather find out if Charlie stabs me to death or not, or if I get him first.
I keep having a recurring dream when I nap.
It starts off in this weird version of my parent's house. They aren't usually around, and it's always night time. They have this roommate who doesn't do anything but sleep and drink beer, and laugh lecherously at random things. Gee, I wonder who that represents.
Things take some twists and turns, described by myself in dream as "a shitty bizzaro version of Miami Vice" for some reason. I end up leaving the house, and it's daylight again.
The house is where Kin Park is back in Dawson, like smack dab in the middle of the big dip across from the middle school, except it sits on a hill in the center of the dip. The street across from it, where my grandparent's old, old house was, is all overgrown with little willows and birch trees. The house is still there, but nothing else is, just the street and then the start of a forest.
I go to cross the street, because I have to meet someone. There's a dude in an old red firebird parked a little ways down, and he calls me over. He's wearing a rumpled tan suit, is shortish and pudgy and balding. I don't know his name, but he looks like an Arnold. I'm pretty sure he's a cop.
"Going to Charlie's place, eh?" he says.
"Yup."
He gives me a cheeseburger and a screwdriver, and says "Here, you'll need these more than I do."
I try to give them back, but he insists he has extras. So I take them, but somehow lose them on the way to Charlie's.
Charlie's sits a little in the forest - it's this old, green, sort of bus looking thing with the front half of the roof missing. Sometimes he pulls in as I get there, making his way through the trees somehow, and sometimes he's already there. Either way, by the time I get close, he's parked and the shrubbery has grown into the bus, making it look like it's been there for 20 years. He pops out the side door.
Charlie kinda looks like Jared Leto in Alexander, but with a couple decades of meth in his system. He's scraping resin out of his pipe with a screwdriver, and then scraping the screwdriver with a big pair of scissors. I wonder if I'm here to buy drugs.
"About fuckin' time, man. Here, I got you a cheeseburger." He throws a huge McDonald's burger into the forest. "Catch."
I go looking for it, because I somehow feel it's maybe important I can prove I somehow caught his fast-pitched meat product, but it's invariably bounced open and gotten stuck in a tree. "Nice catch, asshole. Come on."
He goes into the bus thing.
It's much, much larger on the inside than on the outside, and looks like every single clapboard trailer in the world has been bolted together, and then filled with generic hillbilly junk that you usually see populating people's yards in low income areas. The sound of rain and thunder from somewhere in the front, as well as the lack of echo in his voice as he moves around in places unseen, lead me to believe the front roof really is missing, even if it's not actually a bus. He's talking about something, but I'm not sure what, though it seems important.
I catch up to him, finally, as he puts down his scissors and screwdriver on a yellowing deep freezer. "I'll go get them, hang tight."
I know this is my chance, so I grab the screwdriver, palming it behind my wrist while I sit on a floral print futon in the next "room". He comes back a minute later, and picks up the scissors.
He mumbles something, to which I reply, "sorry, what was that?"
"I..you..have it.." he mumbles again. I ask again.
"I KNOW YOU HAVE MY SCREW DRIVER YOU LITTLE FUCKING PRICK", he screams, and he turns on me, his face contorted with rage.
And then I wake up.
--------------
You got all unhappy that I wasn't responding a ton today. I just didn't feel like talking about your problems anymore. I didn't feel like talking to anyone, really, but I really didn't want to do that specifically. Find some new topics. Not literally everything has to be about how shitty your life is, or at least, it doesn't have to be how your life is shitty in the same three ways, over and over and over. There is legitimately just nothing else left to say about it on my end.
I wonder if I do that to other people. I'd like to think I don't.
Anyway, I then make a concentrated effort to talk to you anyway, and you just get mopey and stop responding, or send a bunch of GIFs. What am I supposed to do with that?
It's totally fine if you decide you just don't feel like talking after all, but maybe say that instead of deciding you don't, seeing as you've just complained for 20 minutes about how it seems like I don't feel like talking.
This is like when you go on and on about how you aren't sure things are working in super incomprehensible terms (I don't know if you think it's super artsy or some shit, but it makes actually communicating with you super impossible because I never have any idea what the fuck you're talking about and really rarely feel like asking, since you won't ever clarify), and then just don't come online for a few days, and then get upset that I have actual real life things to do here that I try to talk about and explain concisely in regards to why they may make me unavailable for a few hours.
Here's a legit excerpt from tonight's conversation:
Me (talking about a cat, like one of the few other things you talk about): Oh. It's good you got some snuggles, then
You: *gif of a wall*
Me: Was ist das?
You, 20 minutes later: A wall and the world between and away you're on the other side mustn't you be on the other side
Me, who, while enjoying deep thought on occasion, doesn't feel like doing the Alice In Wonderland dance tonight: Who says?
You: My nightmares, the bears are directly ahead and devour me and it all seems to be because I can't paint you as in my world. Fixing different problems I try to repaint everything else around me around where you were
Me, because even though I get what you're saying, having had this exact conversation every night for months now, don't feel like talking it through anymore: So, what are you planning to do about it, then?
To which I'm sure I'll get some more bullshit about living in a tent.
I am getting angry and bitter and I don't like it one bit.
I'd rather find out if Charlie stabs me to death or not, or if I get him first.
Man, I don't know what I'm doing anymore.
Most things are good. Some important things are not.
Some important things seem like they could be, but it's not really worth taking the chance and making other people sad to accomplish.
I think more than anything, it's all just very frustrating. I know what I want, but I'm so uncertain of the reality of it that I'm not going to bother to actually make a play to go get it.
I hate feeling like this. I sort of have this feeling I'm going to get hung up over nothing, and that's just stupid.
On the plus side, I've started drinking again and that's pretty nice. It's not like I have some reason not to anymore.
Most things are good. Some important things are not.
Some important things seem like they could be, but it's not really worth taking the chance and making other people sad to accomplish.
I think more than anything, it's all just very frustrating. I know what I want, but I'm so uncertain of the reality of it that I'm not going to bother to actually make a play to go get it.
I hate feeling like this. I sort of have this feeling I'm going to get hung up over nothing, and that's just stupid.
On the plus side, I've started drinking again and that's pretty nice. It's not like I have some reason not to anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
