[792] Sick Son of a Bitch

I really, really, don't now how to write this blog. If it's any indication, it started on the second line, as though I hit enter before I began. What a mess, what a mess indeed.

I might just wait until tomorrow.

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Here we are, an hour or so later, and I'm incredibly annoyed.

 

First, I just feel sick. My head is flirting with explosion. My stomach is wrenching. I'm in a bad, bad way physically. If you read this like a nice little skip along, just remember, I've puked before, and am constantly considering puking again, while I try to capture my thought process.

 

I just texted an old friend. This old friend I'm fairly sure “hates” me under the presumption that I've raped one of her friends. This is the kind of place I'm occupying. I'm just fucking sick of things lingering. I'm tired of old prejudices and assumptions and really shitty justification defining the back rooms of my head or defining how I engage with the world.

 

She hasn't responded, of course.

 

I'm perpetually dizzy. The mild to intense pain in my temple serves to stir my stomach. I go in an out of feeling like I can deal with it with the world's most pretentious show paused in my peripheral. The Story of Film telling me how camera angles and story-tellers helped define eras. I can barely hold back the vomiting. The “revolutionary” wide-angle camera lens can eat my dick.

 

I'm in an impossibly conflicted space right now. I've met half this town through the course of my job, and none of them were at the Beer Fest. I occupied this space of upper-middle class people pretending to zero in on their beer tastes. I paid $55 for the privilege of getting there an hour early. I tossed the excess I felt was offered in over-pours.

 

I haven't really been in the mood to drink for years. What are you to do, by yourself, when you buy the ticket months in advance? I don't have friends, so it's not like I got to discuss the nuances. I didn't get to crack jokes or turn it into a shared memory. What was the point? Why is it midnight, me having slept half the day, me feeling like shit, typing this garbage trying to nail something fucking arbitrary to the ground?

 

I think the longer you live, the more you want to die. The baggage piles up. The floor of your relationships figures out a way to corrupt itself.The inability to recover reminds you bodily it's time to sleep very hard. It's a weird thing to say, but moments like this, I don't even want to die, but I do. I envy the endless rest. I wouldn't have to fight for my remotely noble space in the world. I won't have to piss and match. I could just die. I could just sleep and never wake up for work. Never take on the responsibility of all that with which I've tasked myself with creating. Never pretend as though my “impact” is much beyond the private ridiculous and personal eulogies whomever took to my page to let you know I'd died would experience.

 

Right now, things suck. They suck hard. They want to puke, again. They hate the idea of everyone they've ever met who isn't prepared to talk this instant about their shitty opinions about me. This moment is fucking dizzy and direct and just fucking angry. I can't close my eyes. I can't stare at the screen. Typing makes me want to puke up the pills I've swallowed. Just fuck it all.