If there ever was a time to give a fuck about how I end up, it’s now. All I have to do is keep fucking on through it but I can’t stand the thought of myself. I’ve only ever been good for a few pages. Anything of an idea beyond a chapter ends up as droll refuse. I suppose life experiences have a way of making it into a writer’s product. It would be fantastic if I had life experiences beyond mediocrity. I can’t remember the last time I put myself in harm’s way; that’s no way to live. What challenge have I met recently that taught me something new about myself? Nothing worth noting, I’m sure. Unfortunately the best indoor sport isn’t marketable material. Fuck it. It’s been a while since I spilled out onto paper. Maybe I should break out the Optima. That’ll ensure no one else reads me. It’s really the safest way these days anyhow. Passing messages by hand is organic. I’m beginning to think electricity was best left to Raijin. However, life is positively more entertaining when we can instantly learn about others we’ve never met, read their shit, discover their secrets, judge them, and tell them how much we love or loathe their existence. And why the fuck not? We may as well find some way to make everyone acutely aware of our opinions; because that’s so important. To Hell with that.
I mock the internet for what it’s done to us. Most that defend these activities on the internet will say people have always been like this. Sure, but it may have been better when they stayed unpublished and no one got to see their junk spread all over the digital dilemma of the time. I can’t even feel free to post an image on a network because it’s become such a fucking regular practice how groups are tracking the data. Do we have anything to hide? Yeah, our fucking consent. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let everyone use their imagination on this one. I have very little good to say about today’s average usage of the internet. It’s just another billboard, except that billboard knows when you’re fucking, and what time you open your refrigerator door. Fuck this whole Goddamn smart meter bullshit. If I want you in my house, I’ll personally invite you. But last I checked the people that post my electric bill aren’t much for conversation, so why the fuck are they collecting signature usage statistics? Because they publish our most trivial information to a database and let corporations access it to better manipulate us into buying their waste.
I don’t know where I’m going with any of this. This is why I’m only good for a few pages. Because I’m reminded of what a trap everything has become. Perhaps it’s always been this way but I was too naive to realize it until now. I can only wonder how naive I remain. Big ups for being critical then. Fuck it. I probably just need to get laid. It’s been a few. I’m just getting tired of the routine. I really want to get to that place where I’m comfortable with the idea of getting married, but I’m not familiar with long relationships. Women have always been nice but not interested. That’s pretty much been my experience since I began wearing corrective lenses.
A humorous memory just cropped up. I once had a teacher tell me I was bored because I was boring. I think it was my 6th grade English teacher, Mrs. Bioty, or some other vermin. The conversation went as such:
Bioty: “What’s wrong with you?” as she walked pass the desk.
Writing something with a frown on my face, yours truly replied “I’m bored.”
Bioty: “You’re bored because you’re boring.”
Obnoxiously and angrily I reply; “What!?”
Yeah!? So I ended up in the principal’s office. I was about to call the hateful wench out on her Goddamn judgmental and shortsighted comment, and that may have embarrassed her. You know.. for an English teacher she didn’t have much patience for the language. I had not even started cursing but I guess it was apparent it may have been subsequent. Possibly, I thought I was mediocre at that time and I recoiled in horror at her accuracy. In retrospect, I ultimately despise her for her arrogance. I can take the truth but I couldn’t, without incident, endure the delivery. I can’t stand somebody that passes judgment without knowing the person. Maybe that’s why I can’t stand the thought of myself. Have I become what I hated decades ago? Well, I’m aware of that possibility. Now, I might have preconceived notions of an individual if they roll up to me in a tattered suit, pussy on their breath, a beer in one hand, and a burning stick in the other; but I would never let them know it because I’m not an asshole. For me to be judgmental would require a lot more time spent with the sot. This doesn’t make me a pussy though. I might fuck them over if our encounters merit enough information that karma’s got a hard-on for giving them the short end, but that simply makes me a righteous dick. And just about everyone can respect a dick in the cynical sense of human interaction. Or maybe I’m just reassuring myself of a place in society.
I really don’t give a fuck one way or the other. I’m not a victim. I’m the only reason for placing me where I am. I’ve always argued against cause and effect, even though I’ve acknowledged the reality of its logic. No way I’d let anyone take my responsibility from me. I am where I am because I put myself here. I’d love to be a marketing genius with a great product but my laziness has kept me just under par with chopping wood and watching other people’s fictional lives on screens. I suppose it’s the new opium. I can still make a change, but I have to take more direct control of my assets to do so. And that’s going to make for some exploratory conversation with partners. We’ll see what’s economically viable. Perhaps it’s not too late to find time to write a novel.
Some idea I have of relationships has me wishing I had a mild mortgage with a wife and child and juggling methods of supporting them in the minimum lifestyle I’ll allow. As much as peers bitch and moan about where they are, I still have this unexplainable urge to “make the same mistakes”. Their words, not mine. But what if circumstances don’t have to be mistakes? What if I make the irreversible choice of taking on the responsibilities of fatherhood with a clear goal in mind? Maybe such preparations can never be made because they take you by surprise. I don’t know. I like to think I could handle it, but I’m far too inexperienced to be confident. I’m certainly in no place to have a family of my own, and that’s unfortunate because I want it regardless of lacking preparations. I am dangerous now. Because if I can’t find something to live for, I feel I should find something to die for.
But I don’t want to die. Like everyone else, I just want my life to get better. I suppose I could make money off exploiting loneliness but that seems cheap, even to one such as myself. I’d rather make money in an honest manner than using my experiences and writing to capitalize from lonely readers. I suppose everyone has the capacity to feel lonely, even while in a relationship; but I can’t bring myself to consider the validity of their claim. Fuck them and their spoiled sense of loneliness. If you can speak with and be regularly intimate with someone, then fuck you for thinking you’re lonely. Try living solemnly in a hermitage of your own design. This is the world I’ve allowed myself to grow among, and I’m just now realizing how much it pains me to exist within its confines. I can’t breathe.
-Jeremy Edward Dion