5/10/15 – This little excerpt may or may not make it past the editor’s digital knife, but this section was written in late 2012. The irony is the girl left the guy, but my drug use prevented any chance at something more. I miss you Jen.
An Average Day Inside My Head
I am so talented-at making you laugh, at putting on a face with normalcy etched onto it. I am your flesh fix, every emotional need I meet. My eyes don’t offer the slightest hint that this thing, this life, this lie I squeeze true is so disturbingly fucked up- I am a therapist’s economic wet dream. For a long time I had no idea why the ugly boy in the mirror was so just plain sad all the time. Why each day was a conscious decision to just be the kid I HAD MADE UP. Guess I was method acting when I had no idea what the hell that even meant back then.
I splash whatever color I find lying around, anything to inject a little vividness into the shades of black. Back to waiting on life since she goes the way of fate’s dull crusade. An insomniac’s master work, and if no one is following this maybe go count some fucking bah bah black sheep. Rewind, fast forward, really just wearing the tape thin. At the point where a thousand sleepless, dream-filled nights succumb to the nightmare of reality.
And then I roll out of bed-
The seed planted, nothing but a worthless weed, allowed to grow for 2 decades, fed with so much shit, so firmly rooted, cutting it down does no good. It always springs back into life. Just when I think it is completely eradicated, after months, even a random year, the surface breaks apart, a tiny sprout bathes in the sunlight. The funny thing about weeds, one day they are barely a green speck in the dirt, the next they stand 10 feet tall, choking out all the things I work hard on growing.
Here I am back into the abyss, can’t remember who I used to be, don’t want to even bother trying- the faces belong to me, deepening “laugh lines” a subtle clue as to the era of the genesis of these fractured images. I feel like a Lit teacher at times, tracing themes, or worse still, the use of symbolism or elements of foreshadowing. I have heard that when speaking to someone face to face, that they eyes moving up, down, left, and/or right is some sort of primitive, organic lie detector. Who knows, who cares?
Lies seem to permeate, set-in by the dryer blood stains, Billy Mays roll over in the Oxyclean grave failure defilements. Humor deflection. Maybe I am just jaded, a crotchety old man’s tired eyes with astute bullshit perception, but truth is an aberration. Honesty involves what can only exist in the vacuum of outer space, RESPONSIBILITY. This once did exist on planet earth, but I am pretty sure it was choked out by mankind’s lust for material bullshit, gained ironically via the stuffs causing a drop in air quality. (LUST), greed, and willful ignorance are a fine combination.
Fuck the facts, global warming is one big fat lie… Al Gore was nothing more than our modern-day snake oil salesman. Oil is good. All it takes to secure its infinite, or is it finite, damn I wish I paid attention in school, but I am pretty sure I heard Dick Cheney say it was just like the ever odd facts in English, where the preposition just doesn’t matter, like unravel and ravel. Enough of what I consider to be plenty of hidden wit.
Owning wrongdoing is well, just really unpleasant. It evokes feelings I am way too familiar with- guilt, shame, sadness, embarrassment, grief, and pain. I mean if God didn’t want us to be happy all the time, then why did he make Prozac? We thrive on instant gratification. That young boy who stole stickers from a neighborhood convenience store and tell you that. He got what he wanted, hiding behind the door in the basement bathroom, more stickers to complete his album like the rich kids.
And I grabbed a towel to dry off-.
Why the self lecture on lies? I have to remind myself that having been lied to last night, a big one, hurts. So many times I delivered them, but right now I am on the receiving end, it sucks and appears that I am karma’s bitch once again, my lifetime of dishonesty is balancing itself out. The truth hurts so badly, I reject all I said earlier in this experiment.
“Hey Mike, it would be a good idea to include something ultra current in the memoir, so people really understand that recovery is really fucking difficult.”
Thank you unnamed friend. I am blaming you for all of what has transpired, events a mere suggestion was the gentle shove the boulder needed to roll down K-2. To be fair, if I am honest with myself, and take responsibility, suddenly I am not blameless in this, which is a tough rub to accept. It muddies the waters of my lies way too much, causing confusion not seen since some guy named Webster decided to make the definition of ravel mirror unravel.
Trust is the greatest lie of them all Michael. I want to blow my brains out. She was different, she truly was the one for me, but I apparently was not the one for her. She would rather spend her life with the world’s biggest arrogant ass hole, who hasn’t outgrown tantrums, who treats her like shit, that’s more appealing than you.
For fuck’s sake, that’s a sobering, depressing thought. I need more dope.