The curse of the h-a-y question

If I say I’ve written and read more words than I’ve spoken, will you try to change that? It’s not that easy. I may have once said ‘Get me to speak six hours straight and you’ll have found a place in my heart’, but this no longer happens. There’s no one that allows me to be me anymore. The last person was Sam, but he’s no longer here. I do not enjoy talking, I never have. The problem is that people are not as respectful as they think they are.
If you notice that I’m talking (as in speaking) about things that I do not wish to talk about, you’ll have probably led me one step closer into madness. I might hate you for it, but no worries, I will hate myself a lot more for it. Right, we’re not getting anywhere, are we?
Shall we just shut the fuck up and do our thing? As in do what each of us is interested in? Only talk to those who know the right thing to say?
Now a German would say: “Einfacher gesagt als getan.”

So there I am sweating out my temperature every night. It’s awful. But you know what the strange thing is? It feels more like I have drooled all over myself or as if my urine has escaped my bladder and is now perspiring through my pores. Yes, I am disgusting…for expressing how certain things really feel.
Another thing: I believe that sometimes I unbutton my pyjama and touch myself in my sleep, because sometimes in the middle of the night I stir and find my pyjama unbuttoned and the morning I wake up, it’s all buttoned again. Strange, isn’t it?

I still cannot grow accustomed to the face of reality. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re wasting away while in the middle of it? Even if you are a good actor or your way of thinking and concept of socialising are the same as all the others and you go out drinking with them because that’s what everybody does?
Am I being rude? I don’t think I am.
I believe we are all the same, but each of us just has a different taste and I happen to hate all your tastes, because I don’t think you have any. Nonetheless I respect you, so show some respect back.
I have quit blaming people for what they did and do. I understand that there is no point; however, I cannot stop hating them, for this is the only way to maintain my source of energy. I need that kind of fuel, as the other sources are way too simplistic and weak.

What I love about Bill Hicks? Why I cannot stop talking about Bill Hicks? I am using Bill Hicks, you see. I am using Bill Hicks as some form of a template in order to fully pull myself together and just say I don’t care and even if I lose you as a friend, I don’t care. Just don’t make me feel like I have to keep my likes and dislikes to myself. I want to tell you how much I hate kids and spring, how much I dislike being among people drinking (don’t care about drugs) and admit that I find amusement within very filthy things and laugh about dark humour that might be too dark for you. I don’t like how you tell me to smile while I do not have the same reasons as you to do so. I have my own reasons. It’s not that I do not smile at all; I simply don’t find you funny or in any way smile inducing. My family makes me smile, genuinely. My dogs make me smile. Bill makes me smile; it’s not that I’m all negative like you all think I am. And yet, it’s you that makes me feel like I’m all negative, which I truly am not. Mostly I just cannot stand your questions, such as the h-a-y?-question. Honestly, what is this? Why would you ask me a question that gets asked the most every fucking day? It makes me wonder what the fuck you want to hear. Or how do I answer you truthfully without triggering another similar question? These days I would do anything to dodge the h-a-y?-question. Anything.
The h-a-y?-question leads towards a string of other unbearable questions.
Questions are supposed to be interesting. Questions are supposed to educate. Questions are supposed to bring you closer to the one you like. But these days every day questions make me want to kill myself. Nothing but repetitions and the art of waiting, as in waiting for everyone to shut the fuck up. But you know they will not.

I had turned 14 when I realised the irrelevance of the h-a-y?-question. Not knowing who I was, what I was supposed to do and say and what I believed in and how to interact with people. At least I knew what I wanted, but not how to get it and I still don’t. And then I came across John Lydon’s autobio, which had taught me to think for myself. He taught me about the values of individuality and honesty and what the real kiss of death was. Sometimes when lonely, I believe that I want to taste that kiss and sell my soul on top of it, but losing my individuality forever is too much of a risk.
I haven’t finished building the emergency exit, yet.

I hate control freaks, each single one of them. And yet I presume that he has turned me into one. There is only one way to find out, but the sad thing is that after five years I still haven’t had the chance. On the love front, I don’t know what I have become. But I will find out. Hopefully before the completion of the fire exit for I want to be ablaze with him.
The scars will look beautiful on the two of us; they will remind us of the invincible heat that we have released to burn them all alive – all those fucking lizards basking in the sun.

My freckles will all be gone; particularly the triplet on my cheek, which looks like I have dirt on my face. Yes. Dirt on my face. My meaningless tattoos will fade. When I saw Lisbeth going to the tattoo saloon to have a tattoo done on her bruised ankle, I thought about my own reasons of getting myself tattooed. I understand.
You feel better and relieved by flaring up the pain that someone has inflicted on you. It’s ok if you do it to yourself…by your own choice, but it’s not acceptable if someone practises pain on you against your will. This is easy to understand, right? You want to make it your decision. Your very own.

So, why am I scared of being who I am? Am I scared of losing my job? Scared of losing friends that are no friends? I am no longer scared of spiders, so I guess I am making progress after all.

London, oh London, I know it’s not your fault, it’s the people’s; all these people who make you. I know I said I stopped blaming people, but read this again, I am not blaming anyone. I saw a bum on the street reading Kafka and now I believe that in each gumball candy machine is a pearl.

So.
Does a fucking pessimist talk like that, you piece of shit?

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *