Like, ya’ll know I know I ain’t shit, right?
If i knew nothing else about this blog, I knew that was the first line. I’m feeling considerably more sickly than I thought I would when I set out to write. Imagine a half digested Steak n Shake burger fighting for its right to party with my dizzying migraine.
In a strict reading of anything I do or claim to be, I do not matter. I take a picture of some solar panels and get likes. Nick’s on his way! But my fucking god people, who amongst you thinks I’m so stupid that I can’t just make money and buy shit? What have I done? Drawn out an inevitable process by way of relative poverty and uninspiring upbringing.
It just doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I can manipulate you. It doesn’t matter if I cry out in earnest angst for your empathy. It’s all just an empty pathetic fucking game that I have no interest in playing, Maybe we only got along because I fell deeply in love with how selfish you were. It clicked with my own sense of self and wah-lah friends. Surely I’ve fetishized self interest in the past and considered it the most reliable, but who says Byron has the monopoly?
Knowing how much I can change the world makes me not give a fuck about doing so. It doesn’t matter. You’re not on board. You’ll sign on to all of the opportunity and convenience I might present to you down the line, but it’s not really us. I was born with some stupid “different’ quirk that operates like my dumb ass does, and there isn’t a single reason on earth to pretend you’re the same way. It’s the fucking romanticism in me! Fucking child.
I walked “home” from the bars tonight. I encountered no one. I found myself alone, humming punk rock songs, filling my shoes up with dewy grass. Whatever else I’m doing in life, I’m nothing more than the lone drunk walking his fat ass back to not even his house at 5 in the morning. Every single day I pray to the god of arbitrariness. Bitch all you like about your friends having fun on the weekends and living like they do. What gave you the idea you were capable of friends you fucking moron?
I want you to escape. I don’t want you to be the victims of “choice psychopathy.” Not like I’m about killing a mother fucker or anything, but more like, I’m going to be disappointed in you. I’m going to hate you. I’m going to hate you more than I do for your silence. I’m going to hate showing up at your door with money and opportunities. I’m going to hate being right at the last remaining reason I put any respect in bothering to exist at all in. I don’t want to. I don’t want to create and achieve so I can be met with the inevitable. I hate you already. I hate you right now and I know I’m going to hate you then. I don’t want it to be any more real than it is already.
This feels like the right time to explain what would ever happen if you found me dead before my time. I’m not a suicidal person by any means. I just, from time to time, make rash decisions in the heat of a moment. God forbid you’re the one dealing with my brains blown against a wall, just know, you couldn’t have seen it coming anymore than me, but for these words. It’s a big reason why I don’t advocate for gun ownership. As Jim Jefferies states, “One day, you’re gonna get sad.”
It’s frankly too overwhelming. I don’t want likes and shares. I want friends. I want help. I want to stop feeling so alone. I just kinda want to believe anything matters, ever. Because I don’t. I work in the vein of “Nick P.” as ardently as you cultivate your fake ass persona for your professional world or family. You already know I’m going to get everything I ever want, but you know it’s never going to include you.
