I don’t know how to start. I’m not ridiculously drunk or anxious. I don’t have a headache. I haven’t been met with some situation that wildly affronts my being. I’m absolutely persuaded I need to talk. I don’t know why.
I want to talk about communication. Or maybe, I want to talk about connection. I have a vague idea of how I think it happens. I think you reach the end of your rope. I think you give up. I think you cry all the tears and exhaust all your muscles.
Have you asked yourself what I am to you?
I’m unendingly concerned with the idea that you “tune into Nick P.” with this expectation that I’m supposed to be the shit sandwich you decided was necessary for you to feel “real” today. I don’t want to be your excuse. I don’t want to be your cliché. I’m not an arbitrary dose of medicine that validates your existence because “thank god I have an asshole in my life.”
If I’m that to you, I fucking hate you and we’re not friends. I’m not willing to pretend you understand me. I get to die with you being a hopeless hapless soul desperately grasping to the idea that at least one person in your life marginally grazed against your heartfelt conceptions. I certainly don’t wish that for us, but I’m pretty well convinced that’s the case.
I guess that…I’m sorry if I ever gave you hope. I’m sorry if you’ve ever believed in me. My contrived complicated being needed an outlet and I’ve given you license. I’ve let you let me be the insensitive asshole. But truly, I hate you for it.
I’m not your keeper. I’m not your guide. I’m not your outlet or excuse. The largest liberty I take to pull some of the most ridiculous shit you can imagine is not a substitute for you being a real person.
I do. I fucking hate my friends. I hate saying it, I hate thinking it. I fucking hate you. I hate that we don’t talk every day. I hate that we don’t fix things. I hate that I rely on you for sanctified moments of cordiality and degraded credibility.
It’s probably not fair to you, but I expect the world. I expect you to be everything I could ever want in a human being. That’s what friendship means to me. You’ll probably never live up to it. It’s not your fault or burden or cause. It’s what I believe about myself in service to people I’m going to keep avoiding manipulating despite every inclination. When you fail, because it’s your destiny to fail, it will be my fault. When we die with a laundry list of regrets, I’ll politely redirect you back to this blog.
It’s cool. I’m not worried about it. I’ve harped for years about “genuine understanding” and the supposed consequences. I don’t really care. Professionally, I do, but existentially let’s just die one day and stop trying so hard…no?
I think it plays into so much. Open relationships? What are we really saying? I’m attracted, you’re attracted, and it’d be cool to fuck. Deep. All this blah blah blah about love and where your mind is at is naïve fluff, in my opinion. I’d certainly never try to turn you against someone. God forbid a probably drunk night sends you my direction, right?
But we can’t be real about it. We can’t be nuanced. We can’t act like what would make everyone happy because the dialogue and expectations are of an all or nothing mantra. It’s always dramatic. It’s always life or death. Politics to personal a load of high stakes nonsense.
Guys, seriously, in the least suicidal way to describe it that is possible, I’m pro suicide. I’m fucking tired of useless struggle. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of blogging. I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of hating people who are only to be blamed by circumstance and small tepid perceptions. I think it’s often viewed as if I have some sort of pious and proud position judging everyone around me. It’s a sure sign that you’re a fucking idiot. I’m you, you’re me, and I’m putting a voice to what you refuse.
It’s true though. I fucking hate you. I hate that we don’t see each other every week, let alone every month or every year. I hate that you don’t have arguments with me after every blog. I hate your hobbies that have nothing to do with fixing our political background or general life circumstances. It’s why I don’t want friends. It’s why I feel alone. I’m supposed to respect you as thoughtful well-meaning motivated individuals with as many or more thoughts than I could ever shit out onto a page. And I don’t. And I hate that I don’t. But that’s my reality.
Fuck me I guess.
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