Wednesday, July 18, 2012
This beatuiful woman across from me, peasant-drunk, giggles and slumps, her breasts almost come out of her silk dress, something that must be by Roberto Angelico, I must have paid for this, I wonder how much, but I do not care enough to ask. "Darling, you are far too rigid." Her voice is cultured, reminds me of someone from the past, it has a European cast to it.
"Fuck you," I snap, and she says something cute, like, 'later tonight, maybe you will', but we both know I will, there is no doubt in this, the moon is blood red somewhere over the sands of the middle east, and some Bedouins must sense that I am loose, the Beast is loose and raging amongst the people, and songs of tribes drift up against the crimson moon to no avail, I will satiate my lust and rage on this poor, pitiful bitch sitting here across from me. Some might call me shallow, some might call me evil, some might love me, but none know me except the dead, none but the dead know my true smile. This realization hacks its way into my chest, and I slump, exhausted and agonized, into my chair. I consider taking the Vyvanse that is in my pocket to perk me up, but I am sick of false happiness, even the prospect of dropping some X later does little to cheer me, as I know the comedown will result in bloodsplatters. Remember the motto, I think savagely, acidly. Cumsplatter or bloodsplatter, either way I am taking that.
"Babe," she says, grabbing my hand, and I want to sever her own hand at that instant, see the death of two colliding planets, and shoot a homeless man in the face, all at the same time; I am an adventurous soul. "Babe, look. We need to move forward."
"We will move forward," I say rigidly.
"I'm serious," she whines. "Let's go on a cruise. You have a boat."
I agree, not listening anymore, I think only of stabbing her with my sharpened anchor and dropping her over the side of my yacht, watching her sink. Watch her sink in agony and terror, and she will finally understand me.
"Can you swim well?" I ask her suddenly, cutting off her drunken rambling.
"Almost drowned in her pussy so I swam to her butt," she says, looking at me boldly, and then she winks. Her use of these lyrics almost makes me vomit, my vision swims with rage.
"I find your feedback to be worse than useless," I tell her through gritted teeth.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Sunday, May 27, 2012
The worst part, I think, is the constant monotony. There are no realistic changes or challenges. The world, vast and empty, has become a haunted mansion, gray, with splashes of bright crimson. I weep silently in empty rooms, and echoes drift off to silence. There is, or will be, someday, a gigantic dead tree, magnificent, beatiful, and terrifying in its endless sorrow. I can relate. How emo my thoughts must sound, I muse, and think that the irony must be delicious. Emotions would be welcome, if I could deal. Deal, I think as I drop a tab of acid and throw the beautiful woman's arm off of my leg, I cannot. I drink down the tab of acid with diet coke and stare out the window over that cursed city beneath me, spread out like a cancer sore.
"Can I have a hit?" the woman asks me, and I do not look at her, I wave a dismissive hand, I do not care.
Friday, February 10, 2012
I figure that there is some sort of transaction out there that could make me feel some sort of positive emotion, a half-hearted, wistful figure, but I do not really believe this. I believe that the closest I can come to a genuine positive is the false happiness of drugs. Genuine falsehood.
Why, I could live forever on an acid trip in six hours.
Ruminating about these things does not help my pain, and I whimper in my bed of silk, sweat-damp sheets. My guts twist, contort themselves into painful shapes and I snarl at the walls, scream at them for hours as I writhe, before finally forcing myself into the shower, where I sit underneath the hot spray and weep, and play with a dismembered hand from two days ago. I see from my tiny view the way that things are, as far as anyone could go, that this is all just people. People make up the world, and I want it all ended. Every. Last. Bit. God is an invention to justify our murderous impulses toward eachother. Sex is an outlet for rage. Love; elusive. Pain a motivator. Define being or life; both can be ended at the end of a dull knife. There is no safety in this knowledge, I decide, and slip on some black silk shorts to work out in before heading to work. There is no safety in anything but being the one thing the rest of the world will always hate and fear: the killer.