How do you all put up with me?
Well, obviously most people don’t. They have the option to skim past and say wow, fucking loon.
But many of you don’t and for some reason a couple hundred of you decided to follow my loon-ness, even through my wacky suicidal ramblings and Isis rants.
Who the fuck says wacky?
No, no, really, pause on this post. Why did I even write that? Who the fuck says wacky? I remember a comic that asked that same question. It’s from the 90’s and I read it in middle school even though it was never meant for children. I mean it was really, really not meant for children and there were a lot of hidden (and very blunt) comments on society and mentality. I loved it. Maybe I can find it.
Obviously you can’t read it unless you open it in a new window, but if you want to, it’s here if you scroll halfway down the webpage.
If you don’t like weird shit or murder or torture or suicide or black creatures in walls or Satan or evil Pillsbury dough boy figures speaking to you in your head or nails through rabbits on the wall or aliens or a self-centered, melodramatic creature with the motto of “Oh, the sorrow” than I’d suggest staying away from it.
Oh, you do? Than you’ll love it.
Anyway, fuck wacky.
What was I talking about?
Oh yeah. Thank you to all of those who put up with my bullshit babbles and harsh opinions and weak sarcasm. I’d hug you all if I could and if I wasn’t so awkward with humanely affection but I can’t and I am, so instead close your eyes tonight, imagine what I look like (however you like; maybe I really do have six arms), and then imagine me and my tentacles encasing your body in warmth and gratitude and peace and then imagine us on your couch watching T.V and me ruining all the plots and special effects of the movies and unrealistic characteristics and stereotypes of characters. Then imagine you kicking me out your door and muttering to yourself “never again”.
My humor has been lost these last few days on the account of major self-revelations. I think that’s what they were. So an apology to those who read for the entertainment and pick-me-up rather than some psycho-ramblings of a chick with split personalities who aren’t really split personalities and a vocabulary so poor she can’t think of any better description for her non-split personalities than “split personalities”.
Everything in my head has settled. The clouds are starting to dissipate. That’s what it feels like–clouds over my vision and on my thoughts. I get stuck in my head and I get a little confused and I start reading into shit and sometimes I tip into depression but this time I didn’t, this time I just spent a few days feeling “enlightened” and under-the-skin-irritated.
Do you know what I mean?
Probably because I don’t really know what I mean.
I call it under-the-skin irritated because it’s bubbling through my veins and in my stomach and in my head . . . but with no reason. In this I can’t focus on my writing because I end up with characters and scenes rambling with opinions and events inconsistent to the plot. They always end up seeming thrown into the piece and that’s not how I write.
You all probably don’t notice it as much in my posts because, well, you’re not in my head. But when I’m sitting there writing it’s like I’m lost in some other world. I go from feeling exuberant and confident to disgraced and worthless to enlightened in a few minutes and if people start trying to talk to me or engage with me I’m probably going to say something stupid or hurtful and not know how to stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
I haven’t ever talked about this with anyone only because 1) speaking is a Godawful chore when it comes to setting up words and explanations and 2) because the more I talk about it out loud, the more real it becomes. The longer I keep everything in my head, the more I can rationalize with myself that 1) I have it under control and 2) it might not even exist.
Maybe none of us exist.
I was taking more cute personality quizzes the other day and one of the questions asked if I had different views on reality that other people never seemed to agree with and I wasn’t sure if I did or not, mostly because how the fuck are you supposed to answer a question like that about yourself when you don’t talk to other people. I asked my boyfriend if I did and he laughed and said I don’t even believe in reality.
I laughed too because he’s right. I don’t know how he knows that, but he does. I must have said something at one point.
I don’t necessarily think everything is a literal illusion, but I think everything is a figurative illusion. I don’t think there’s any point in taking things as seriously as people do and honestly I think that’s an illusion too. Keeps you from seeing life for life and instead makes you focus on yourself. Selfish ways of thinking.
Anyway, I forgot what I was going to say again.
It’s hot as Satan’s balls in this room. Why do I have on a sweater?
Oh that’s right, the fucking book that’s sitting right next to me.
I started reading “The Suicide Of Claire Bishop” by Carmiel Banasky. If you don’t know, it’s about a woman in the 50’s who gets a portrait painted by a woman who ends up depicting her suicide rather than her portrait for reasons much more obvious once you read part one. In the 2000’s, West, a man with schizophrenia becomes obsessed thinking the woman who made the portrait is his ex-girlfriend and sees clues in everything. . . well, I’m only in part three so I can’t say much more about the book. That’s what I know so far.
Anyway, I’m not going to go into an analysis until I finish the book.
My point is two things:
- I always read older books, the “classics”, and it freaks me out and confuses me that people who write modern fiction include people who send text messages. I always ask myself why would they send a text message and then I realize it’s 2015 and if you want to sell shit you have to be “relevant”. Then I miss books like Song Of Solomon and East Of Eden so if you know any writers who still do stories with that kind of depth, recommend me some. We all know I ain’t going out to a bookstore any time soon to look for them. I’m trying to get into reading again.
- West and his clues remind me of my anxiety.
Let me elaborate on that a bit. I don’t see clues in everything like him, but I see it in people’s faces and their eyes and that’s what I mean when I say I have many misconceptions about people. I don’t think I see who they really are, I think I see what my brain wants me to see and in that moment especially, I become a believer. He explains it in his behavior better than I can with words.
Let me try still, because I’m a go-getter.
He sees reason for everything. When I talk with people, or they talk at me and they have little movements or gestures or squints in their eyes or shape of their mouth, or level of attention to my words, or amount of eye contact, all those subtle things that you notice but most people don’t consciously pay so much attention to. I do–those are my clues.
I guess I don’t read them with any real accuracy or else everyone I’ve ever met must really, really hate me and must really, really think I’m an odd ball.
They might all think I’m an odd ball but I find it unlikely they all hate me to the extent I think they do.
Even someone as simple as a cashier at a register freaks me out. They stare and they say hello and they are probably acting normal but to me they’re reading my level of uncomfortability, which in turn makes me very uncomfortable, and they smile and hand me a receipt and they think I don’t know that they’re laughing at me but I know they are.
If you ask me “do you really believe people laugh and think about you all the time?” I’m going to say no because I know that’s what I’m supposed to say. But really I’m convinced they are. If I wasn’t I wouldn’t be so anxious.
The people who pass you on the street like the woman the other night. I was with my boyfriend and she was middle aged with her friends. When I glanced at her she had already been staring and then she glanced away quickly. I got the feeling she was disturbed by my height. I’m only 5’7 and she was only an inch or so shorter than me, but that was the kind of look I saw. It’s because her eyes were wide and her face was stern and that usually means judgement.
That or she’s never seen a brown person who doesn’t look Mexican or black. Maybe she was confused.
I don’t like that I know what people are thinking. I know everyone says “you never know what they’re thinking” but bullshit, it’s not as if they can hide it. Maybe they don’t even know they’re thinking it!
I don’t know how to imitate this mask people put on themselves and I think that’s part of the reason I find it hard to communicate. I know how to act happy and semi-“normal”, because that’s what people expect, but I don’t know how to keep myself from talking about random things or asking random questions or laughing at crude things or keep my mouth shut when it comes to stupidity or being distracted or “aloof”. That’s just me. I don’t know how people stay interested talking about their jobs and their lives. I get bored with earthly things very easily.
I prefer jokes and space and philosophy and thinking and concepts and logic and opinions and nature and gut instinct and truth. And I prefer the space in my head to human interaction, even when it’s a black hole swallowing my life force.
This is why I love writing. If you meet me in person I’m going to sound the exact opposite of all this chaos, mostly because I don’t know how to put it in speaking words. I’ll generally say things that are normal (I’m very cautious about that) and appear normal and if you ask me how I’m doing I’ll say fine. But if you read my writing you’ll meet a different part of me you never expected.
I do love you all.
But I must say this:
People. Bore. Me.
Thank you for not being bored with me.