The Word

You know something odd that I have seemed to notice the more time I grow into sobriety? The way that people define themselves, how they portray that image they are attempting to convey to the world while hiding the identity being pushed down inside. For a super obvious example, the guy in high school that beats the shit out of feminine males and openly gay people while deep down harboring an intense sexual attraction to fellow males but his daddy's a man's man and that shit doesn't fly in the south. Like I said, an obvious example, but that way you can pick up what I'm putting down. I mean that's not to say I never noticed it before, like somehow in the 24/7 stupor that was a decade of my life, I just missed all these signs, I did them too. My favorite thing was going to a bar I didn't normally frequent and lay out an entire life that wasn't mine, just one that I dreamed of and the people always seemed to believe whatever I told them because why wouldn'

Ah, good God is it weird to be back here, back to, well, i guess where it all began. This tiny little cubicle hole in the corner of the inter-web, The Word; a dismal diatribe of whining and pitiful melancholy. Got to love it, huh? No, no i know, you don't, nobody does and i get that. But fuck it, it's something to do right? I originally started this blog as a way to reach out, chat and banter with readers and fellow writers all around this dying blue ball and for the most part, it actually worked! Thank you to my folks in Singapore by the way for buying my last two books, it's great to see some love more than 3,000 miles away still going strong. To the rest of the readers, i mean i feel like i cannot thank you enough. So, this is sort of like a newer version of old me, still a little bitter and i'll always enjoy discord and mayhem, almost like that should have been somewhere in my name (thanks mom) but at the same time, not the same Jekyll and Hyde guy from before.

I made myself lonely. There, I said it, acknowledged it, pledged it for the world to know. I made my myself an alien. I did it meticulously, over the course of 3 short years. Sure, I can blame two people not in my life anymore on that bitch named death. But everyone else was me. My love for discourse and passion for self-hatred. I made myself lonely and bitter. Maybe it was the pills, the long, loathsome nights staring at a blank wall waiting for them to black me out. While my roommate and at that time, best friend, as well as others enjoyed each other's company. I filled my belly with whiskey and pills. Being high is a steadfast feeling, a temporary and ultimately grisly feeling, the loss of your own self-control and inhibitions into some sort of fantastical bliss only you can truly perceive. You know what trying to constantly achieve that got me? Nothing. Nothing but alienating those couple friends I did have left, after all, who really loves a drunk? These people I used

 Why is it so hard to tell you I’m way you deserve so much to hear? Why can I simply not convey these feelings for which I have held since the first day I met you, so that it becomes more clear crystal when doubt clouds your mind? Romance is such a perplexing thing, it is a wonderful bliss of rambling emotion and pure ecstasy wrapped all into one perfectly orchestrated bow. It is that small cherry on top of your sundae that compliments all the rich and delicious tastes contained within. Love has the great ability to iverserate and cripple a person, driving us to perform the most diabolical, outlandish actions, things we would never do in a sober state of mind. I say that, because this amazing and dreadful feeling is the best of both worlds, it is the universe’s most widely used mind altering substance, one that you cannot simply buy on the corner and a drug that has reached tens of millions of years’ worth of addiction. How can I become sober again? I continue to wrack and scratch

        Finding purpose is the most difficult challenge that is presented to us as people. It provides both this feeling of uselessness and a strive to be useful when in reality, are any of us truly useful? See there i go getting negative again, whining like some teenager fresh off a spree of angsty, punk-rock concerts and dying my hair two shades of red just to piss my seemingly conservative parents off.     Useful is the most useless feeling, it is really just a word of trickery because in the end you are only as useful as the person or process recognizing your usefulness, otherwise and in the true grand scheme, we are all useless. Our lives operate based on that sole need to feel like we are doing something that contributes to the reason behind the drive of achieving this feeling of usefulness. I feel like this an argument made only by sad people though, for what is useful sadness? Those who are happy know their purpose no matter how much someone else may tell them that purpose is

I feel like a major part of people's happiness has to do with acceptance by other people around you. This has become an increasingly more difficult thing for as i have grown up, i feel as if it's not that people do not accept me, it is that i feel that on a subconscious level, they are finding me just as strange as i am finding them. I often notice myself silently observing the way someone watches television, pondering exactly what sort of silent thoughts they may be having about the structure of my face as i also watch the television.  Do they find my fixation on the same program odd? Do they notice that white dryness on my lip sort of how i cannot help but notice the crust in their eyelash? It is an offbeat topic for discussion, that i could not agree on more and yet in the same instance i feel as if i cannot be the only person who has ever had a thought to this level of blatant insecurity. I do not think these strange observations make me unique, though i do not believ