so...
...it's not that there isn't anything happening recently. Quite the contrary, too many exciting and randomly fun things have been happening. So why HAVEN'T I be writing about them?
Ask me to my face, it's a simple "can't be fucking bothered to anymore". Seriously, too many things are happening for things to be a simple "Yay! This is some randomness I can write about and receive tons of comments about and increase my readership by a bajillion-fold! Yes, yes. Even the improbability of that happening is not enough to faze me from my piss-shitted stupor on the grandeur of things-I-don't-have-words-to-describe-anymore!" No, no. Indeed not.
A more honest answer would be that I can no longer be bothered about chronicling a life anymore. When I started recording things down, DESPITE the earlier "gawd-I'm-so-gonna-fucking-die-every-day-next-week-except- Sundays-because-I-won't-work-weekends",
I seriously thought that I'd amount to something more then a few pennies and a some copper wire.
The only person I recall truly telling me I was worth what I stopped thinking I was worth was my geometry teacher in ICPU. I don't think I've ever told anyone else this, but she said something similar to "You know, I envy your mom so much. If my son would become half of what you were, I would be so proud." At that one point, just after that period at the end of the second sentence, I was like, wow, someone who had no real preconceived notions or internal biases believing I was gonna be something great. In my yearbook, she signed off "... and I know you'll be a great man one day."
Now I can smile something less than what you'd think I would be. It's a blasphemous crossbred mockery of a flit of happiness with a vengeful smirk, and that smile you see people jumping off buildings have plastered on their already hollow eyes. The mouth is that of a genuine glow, the cheeks a portion of smirk, and the eyes hollow.
As I was walking back up the hill just now, I was just muttering to myself, how fortuitious should some murderous bunch of juvenile street thugs a foot taller than I was armed with dangerous utensils should chance upon me and felt like beating me into a pulp. I doubt much of a resistance would have been put up. Not even reflexively. Or if I accidentally strode out onto a road with rushing and unstoppable traffic. Or if I fell onto the train tracks. Teehee. How positively delightful.
I was wondering. What happens at the end of this five years? Three decades of mindless servitude in some soul-sucking corporation earning big bucks and stomach ulcers? Or that same three decades spent at some back breaking self induced indentured servitude for a posh apartment filled with IKEA furniture and the sound of silence? And I have more to fix before I'm technically done with my life contracts. Damn these things they make you sign in blood. And all before learning how to write, too.
Someone told me that this path of one-ness that I'm walking isn't something that's imposed on me. Oh definitely not. If it was, I would have most definitely broken it. No, a simple inventory take shows that I have no capacity to take care of anyone else. Not on any remotest sense of permanency. Money I think I can manage. Time, maybe so. But I have nothing inside me to give anymore. I think I burnt it all. That happens to pyromaniacs. You sometimes forget that fire can bite you. And I don't have an extinguisher.
Did you know that slashing your wrists won't really kill you? It will probably just cut a tendon and render your hand limp and disabled and shit, but you won't bleed enough to actually die.
