Monday, January 13, 2014

Failure was supposed to be easy.

What we need here is a time machine and a lethal dose of morphine ... I think I can save us all a lot of trouble. It was me, see? I banged the drum. I shot the Sheriff. I colored all around the lines. I smoked the competition, but that shit didn't get me high - it got me sinusitis and the knowledge that things don't have to be like this. You just gotta pay the fare. Play fair? What are you, simple? Another dollar, another day. I learned little, and I learned too much. Going in circles is for suckers, Gentle Touch. If anything, it took me sideways and most people don't fuck with sideways.

I'm surrounded by loose suit, loose morality, vodka-soaked mouth-breathers. Can't you fucking see 'em, man? They're all around us. Circle the wagons. Get your gun, this is America! Shoot 'em in the guts and see what color shit comes out. Flagons of blood, bile, piss. All the colors of the rainbow. Circle the goddamn wagons. Annie, get your gun! I'll hold real still, I promise.

Failure. We need a working definition. If you are a capitalist, I am a failure. If you are a nihilist, what the fuck does it matter? If you are still as young, as stupid as I used to be, you can shuck and jive for a few more years. If you're my 6th grade teacher, I'm fucking sorry, alright? I know you saw it and it's not the kind of thing you forget, but I fucking loved you and you married a man whose last name sounded like a late night talk show prank. What did you really expect?

You even walk crooked, you bastards. You think I don't see those little glances. You think I have better things to do than sit here and wonder what you whispered in his ear, but you're wrong. Bang the gong. I have an announcement to make. And I have all the time in the world. Apocalypse now.

I want to write lovely sentences - baroque and beautiful, but they make me sick. They're like wedding gowns - overhyped, pricey, uncomfortable - just wear a fucking dress. No one cares if you're a pretty princess. Which isn't true. Lots of folks care. Just not me. I'm a bad person, see? And I'm also tough to categorize. I want my funeral cheap and I don't want it supersized. Fancy coffins are just as bad as wedding dresses, cuz.

When someone you love dies, do you really have to spend six months rent putting 'em in the fucking ground? Shit, when I go, feed me to the Lion's Club. Take me to the casinos and let the housewives at me, tell them the one who eats the heart wins a BRAND. NEW. CAR. Feed me to starving orphans. Drop me with your broken washing machine, down by the river where the deer don't care. I've been there. Just let it be, man, don't spend a goddamn dime. Save it and buy a bum some Thunderbird. Whine? I've been known to do it. I don't eschew it. It's real and that's all that matters. No one listens anyway. Fuck it.

Look at all the pretty men in fancy suits. Pretty women, too. They don't get paid as much, but in a world where kids get shot for living in the wrong neighborhood, it's kind of splitting hairs. Still, women should get paid as much as men, I get that. Fair. Maybe they should get paid more? Millionaires!

I don't want to squeeze myself into your tube of convenience. I don't think that it's odd that I have friends who are cops, friends who are drug dealers, and friends who hate me. I do think it's odd that I have any friends at all. I figure they're waiting for the payoff. No one knows how the show's gonna end. But it's gonna be epic. That's a guarantee. I've been selling it for years. Place your bets.

It'll be the kind of thing folks talk about. Fat-faced fucking Friar Tuck motherfuckers. They'll be outraged, filled with sorrow, gleefully aware that no one sees their exultation. Teeth deep in the fibrous sinew of our collective sorrow, blood dripping from their jowls. Don't you see them? Am I fucking crazy? Am I supposed to pretend I'm happy? That's it, right? You got a new summer home? Oh, huzzah, HUZZAH. I just bought a forty and felt guilty about it. I don't play the game right, clearly.

I didn't feel like I was going to be a failure. Not back then. But that was a while ago. Things change. And I got people telling me all the time that I'm not a failure - the fucking idiots. They must not live in the same hypocritical morass that I do. Then, I got people telling me that, not only am I a failure, but a degenerate as well. And then there's me. I tell myself I can make it through one more day. And I keep telling myself over and over, metronomic nonsense from the git-go. I'm too lazy to make a real decision about it. The kind I could respect. So, I'll hedge myself in with rows of self-loathing. Build that shit up so high that you'll never see inside. Hide. Run. Or decide. Johnny get your gun.

I'm just fucking tired. Tired of the folks who want to love me for nothing. Tired of the folks that want to crucify me for the same reasons. Tired of people whose hatred and lust for crucifixion is justified. Tired of confusion. Delusion? Let me present this tired solution. Pretty words. Pretty words! They'll cover up the ugly. They'll make you feel good while you sit on your couch and read these things and think whatever it is you think. Which probably changes a lot - but comes to rest on a song from some cartoon you saw when you were seven. So, where's the fucking baby bumble bee? Cut off your nose to spite the world. That's the lesson, boys and girls.

Care to barter? I've already gone all in. All that's left now is the oh shit and the he was right after all. Or you'll carve your excuses out and hold your metaphorical nose (which I just told you about) and just absolutely wither with superiority and vanity, feigning humanity. When you say things to intentionally cause pain, you gotta live with that. You tell me I'm worthless, and I remember. It doesn't matter if you said it twenty years ago or if you're gonna say it in five, I've got a good memory. I can see the future and it's much like the present 'cept we all hate a little more. Whatever. You said it. And every time I look at your face I'm gonna hear it. But naysayers are a dime a dozen. Ain't that right. Ain't that about the size of it. I'm just some 'Nancy' chickenshit.

I want to be stereotyped. I want to be classified. I want to steal lyrics from bands on the sly. Am I not one of your Descendents? All y'all pond scum bastards in the blue suits and red ties, you listening? I'd like to tighten the knot. Dress you up proper. Keep you in the crawl space. Use that American flag pin for something other than a shield of wink, wink - give 'em a soundbite and let's play golf. Group me in with all the other folks who don't fit into your plans. I'll be over there with the kikes and faggots. Just don't get me near that podium. I might tell the truth. I don't know if the mic could handle it.

I wish I lived on an island by myself. Sure, I'd be lonely, but there would be no one there to hear the screams.

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