Doesn’t everyone know what it feels like to want to die?
into trembling lips it waits
a mouth of water, her debate
a sliver of flesh
a snippet of green
down the gullet you go,
you go,
hours she bides
time, it flies,
and up, up, you come,
you come,
the pain so rancid,
the broil, so sweet,
as life has meaning
once again.
and just like that, here I am again; hopping from social network to social network, prowling for something new, something I haven’t seen yet, someone I haven’t stalked yet, secretly wishing someone would talk to me, because I’m lonely, hungry, sad, can’t sleep, and thirsty, but I’m too afraid of the dark to get up and get a glass of water to calm me down and allow me to sleep, and my long lost lover will get angry, irritated sick, if I turn on the lights. I keep seeing everything out of the corners of my eyes. I am afraid. Do I have any real friends?
My head keeps burning, doc.
Suicide is a desperate act by someone who is in intense pain and wants their pain to stop. That is a HUMAN response to extreme pain, not a selfish one. And over 90 percent of the people who die by suicide have a mental illness at the time of their death, so they are not thinking clearly.
Saying that a person who had severe clinical depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, PTSD, or a similar illness was engaging in an act of selfishness when they died by suicide – even though their thought process, mood, and judgment were greatly affected by their mental illness – is not only inaccurate, but downright cruel, to both the suicide angel and the suicide survivors.
And those who use the word “selfish” are merely helping perpetuate the STIGMA associated with suicide.
A suicidal action that manifests from intense, excruciating, unbearable pain associated with a serious mental illness has nothing to do with selfishness. Period.
-Kevin Caruso
A simple misread caption - plagiarism to boogeyman to plagiarism, ended in finding myself agreeing that “Yes, children, the one thing you should fear is being nothing but an imitation, constantly making carbon copies of everyone else’s work and pretending it belongs to you.” Not only was it instilled as no one will ever love, or praise, or look up to the successful copycat, but that you’ll go to jail for it, too. Unless you cite your work.
Now then, there’s the prospect of similarity, being in the same generation with similar surroundings and experiences can indeed cite a in-unique thought, seemingly uncreative, when in actuality you thought you were OH SO BRILLIANT, OH DEVIN AIR, Oh, oh, oh. But we’re all the same. You’ll never be individual. In fact, the harder you try, the more normal you’ll become. People will see you’ve done something new, and say, oh, I want to do that! Then the never ending cycle of it all continues, and we’re all a lump of hopeless mass on a giant spinning rock and we’re all going to die.
And I hate every single one of you.
Today, as I was being visually stimulated by my system for transmitting visual images and sound that are reproduced on screens, chiefly used to broadcast programs for entertainment, I was reminded of something I hadn’t thought of in quite the time.
Mad libbing.
What does it matter? Why is it so prevalent to my being? Why MAD LIBBING?
Because mad-libbing was my introduction to sexuality. As strange as it seems, when I was young and knew nothing of the act or though of the practice of mating, I had friends that did. Friends told me things like “sex is kissing naked” and “an orgasm means you feel like you have to pee”. Misleading incorrect information that built my understanding of the perverse sexual universe I would eventually be a part of.
As the story goes, I had friends that eventually showed me what the internet really was for, pornography. For some reason even though everyone seemed to enjoy it I never really found it stimulating in the least, if anything, I hated the sight of the male’s genitalia and found them as a whole quite disgusting, hairy, grunting, sweaty creatures. Nonetheless I found much more joy in READING the pornography rather than WATCHING it – and more-so, writing it, so that I may be the God of my own desires and lusts. Being at a young age, and never having any experience with the topic, I had no material to base my thoughts upon. So I came upon a site my babysitter had shown me once, a site dedicated to Mad Libbing.
Before being tainted with the essence of intercourse I had never purposefully searched for the wrong in things. After I found the sweet joy of arousal I looked for the dirt in everything. In the ‘adult’ Mad Libbing section I had hours upon hours of entertainment. I knew what it felt like to be aroused. And I was forever tormented by my constant desire, but no understanding of release. Still to this day I have never successfully masturbated, and I find that I enjoy nonphysical stimulation to the actual act of sex itself. In short, I have developed some strange fetish for arousal but denied orgasm. I find sex is much more enjoyable before I’ve gotten off, but once I reach climax, it is no longer enjoyable. I cannot, no matter how I try or what I try with, understand the skill of masturbation. Maybe that lack in skill explains, in part, my inability to stay out of relationships for long periods of time, even though I do not mentally desire them, nor am I usually ready for a new partner. But I do not have and cannot enjoy casual sex, so I have no choice but to hop from relationship to relationship. Even if I do not love the person, or find them terribly desirable, I force myself onto whatever will take me and hold on to them for self-gratification so that I may not be physically alone, though in my mind there is nothing more that I would rather covet then to be completely alone inside of my head.
Or am I already?
Ah, Thanksgiving. A holiday of celebration of genocide of a race of people. It’s like the holocaust, except we have a whole holiday dedicated to celebrating it.
How American. Proud of everyone we kill, proud of every child we beat and every woman we rape. And no one stops us, but they all laugh as we get fatter, stupider, and slower every day.
