If I tell you that I’ve written and read more words than I’ve spoken, would you believe m? I might 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. No one lets me be me anymore. The last person was Sam, but he’s no longer in town.
I don’t enjoy talking; I never have. The problem is that people aren’t as open-minded as they say.
If you see me talking about things that I don’t want to talk about, you’ll have probably lead me one step closer towards madness. I might hate you for it, but no worries, I will hate myself a lot more for it. We’re not getting anywhere, are we?
Shall we just shut the fuck up and do our thing? As in doing what we enjoy doing. Or should we only talk to those who know the right thing to say?
Now a German would say, “Einfacher gesagt als getan.”
So here I am, sweating out my heat every night. It’s awful. But you know what the strange thing is? It feels more like I’ve drooled all over myself. Or my urine is sweating through my pores. Yes, I’m disgusting for expressing how certain things feel.
Another thing: I believe that, in my sleep, I sometimes unbutton my pyjama and touch myself because, 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.
I still can’t grow accustomed to the face of reality. Do you ever get the feeling that you’re wasting away while in the middle of it? It doesn’t matter if you are a good actor or your way of thinking is the same as all the others–you go out drinking with them because that’s what everybody does?
Am I rude? I don’t think so.
I believe we are all the same, but each of us has a different taste, and I happen to hate all your tastes because I don’t think you have any. Anyway, I still respect you, so show some respect back.
I have quit blaming people for what they did and do. However, I can’t stop twitching at them. This is the only way to maintain my energy source. I need that kind of fuel–other sources are too simple and weak.
What do I love about Bill Hicks? Why can’t I stop talking about Bill Hicks? I’m using him as a role model to pull myself together.
Please don’t make me hide what I like and dislike. I want to tell you how much I hate kids and spring and dislike being among people drinking. I admit filthy things entertain me, and I laugh at dark humour that might be too dark for you.
I don’t like how you tell me to smile if I don’t have the same reasons. I have my own reasons. It’s not that I don’t smile at all; I just don’t find you funny.
My family makes me smile genuinely. My dogs make me smile. Bill makes me smile; it’s not that I’m all negative like the way you all think. And yet, you make me feel cynical, which I am not. Moreover, I can’t stand people asking me, “How are you?”
Honestly, what is this? It’s a very complicated question. Why would you ask me a question that goes around the world a billion times a day? What the fuck do you want to hear? Or how do I answer you truthfully without triggering another question?
These days I would do anything to dodge “How are you?”
It’s a question that leads towards a string of other unbearable ones.
Questions are supposed to be interesting. Questions are supposed to educate. Questions are supposed to bring you closer to the person you like. But these days, common questions make me want to kill myself. It’s a world of repetitions, and you wait for everyone to shut the fuck up. But they won’t.
I had turned 14 when I realised the irrelevance of “How are you?” I didn’t know who I was, what I was supposed to do or how to interact with people. I knew what I wanted but not how to get it, and I still don’t.
And then, I came across John Lydon’s autobiography, 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 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, every single one of them. And yet, I presume that he has turned me into one. There’s 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. Hopefully, I will find out before completing the fire exit because I want to be ablaze with him.
The scars will look beautiful on us; they will remind us of the invincible heat that we have released to burn them alive – all those fucking lizards basking in the sun.
My freckles will all be gone, particularly the triplet on my cheek, which looks like 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 for getting a tattoo. I understand it too well.
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 gives you pain against your will. I hope this makes sense to you.
So, why am I scared of being who I am? Am I scared of losing my job? Scared of losing friends that are not friends? I’m no longer afraid of spiders, so I guess I’m 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 reread this; I’m 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.
would a fucking pessimist say that?