My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

Last night, my brother takes me to some ridiculously weak college bar, a bar in a shopping center called, Peabody’s. They card you at the door, security all around, kids shooting darts and drinking beer, the exact opposite of anywhere I usually go. I like dive bars, goth clubs, dark places with character.

So, we’re at this lame bar, my brother and his friends, me with my black nail-polish, seventeen tattoos, Nirvana’s I Hate Myself and Want to Die bouncing around in my head, when security comes over and says that we have to go to the front and speak to the manager. Apparently, after being there for about two mind-numbingly dull hours, they’ve decided, the manager and his staff, that I’m a “liability” and they’d like us to leave. My brother, who’s quite angry, tells the guy he’s being ridiculous. I’m giddy because this is the only interesting thing that’s happened all evening. The manager then softens a little, says that I need to leave for my own safety because there are lots of drunk people around who could fall on me. He then decides that I could stay if I specifically say that I want to stay, to which I reply via the alphabet, “I-s-u-r-e-a-s-f-u-c-k-d-o-n-t-w-a-n-t-t-o-s-t-a-y.” The manager agrees, we leave.

I think I’ll just stick to my “dark” places, places that suit me. People are friendlier in the dark.

These are the lyrics to a B-Side version of Nirvana’s I Hate Myself and Want to Die. As a whole, I don’t think that it makes sense, I don’t think it’s all supposed to make sense. I love the song because certain lines are very powerful, and, at least to me, meaningful. Kurt was absolutely fucking brilliant at abstract word art.

Do any lines strike you as important? My next tattoo might be one of these lines.

When you tell me you love me, I want to kill myself. I want to take a razor to my wrists, two vertical slits. I want to bleed out in the bathtub, slow and quiet-like.

Your words are useless, empty, nothing but hollow. Your words are a reminder of things I wanted, things taken away, things I need to forget.

When you tell me you love me, I want to believe you. I want to bleed out, because I know there’s nothing to believe.

So, I’m having some second thoughts about transcription. The act of writing, at least for me, is a private, solitary act. Even when I could talk, I never wanted someone to take dictation. I guess I’m pretty self-conscious about what I’m writing until it’s more or less finished. Also, all my ideas are very dark right now, so I feel really uncomfortable sharing the process of turning those thoughts into words. 

I’m going to keep banging out words with my thumb until I can’t. The NeuroSwitch is less than a week out, maybe it will work.

So, I’ve decided that until I can effectively type again, I’m going to have my assistant, Sarah, transcribe my writing ideas by way of the alphabet whenever we’re out for the evening. For those unaware, the alphabet involves a person saying each letter of the alphabet and me signaling with my eyebrows when to stop at a particular letter. Then, each letter gets written down in a notebook.

I’ve been really hesitant to write that way because it gives me flashbacks of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, which absolutely fucking terrified me, but I have to write somehow. Creation kills depression. We wrote most of my last post last night using the alphabet, and I think it went well enough.

You’re sitting in a bar drinking a vodka tonic. It’s goth Christmas all year-round, little colored Christmas lights with little lit-up skulls hang from the ceiling above your back-corner table. Otherwise, the place is dimly lit, smokey from so many cigarettes, awash in loud music. None of it unpleasant.

Silence from the jukebox, then an acoustic guitar, a wispy melancholy voice. Elliott Smith sings about somebody that he used to know, you think about somebody that you used to know. لعبة بوكر You wish that the song were true, that the person bouncing around in your head didn’t matter. bet365.com  Of course, they do matter, they always matter, and it kills you by inches every day. قانون لعبة البوكر  The vodka helps you forget, but not enough, never enough. You take a sip, it burns going down, a burn that’s somehow soothing. Pain makes you think of pleasure, makes you think of pulled hair during sex, makes you think of loss.

There’s a ghost in your head killing you by inches, and you wish you would just die.

So, I have two problems regarding my writing. First, my hand is shockingly worse, my thumb feels practically dead. Physically, the words are getting harder to write, a new level of difficult. Second, the fact that I can hardly blog, let alone carry on a simple conversation, is astonishingly depressing. Being this depressed, it’s not easy to write anything decent, even if it takes six hours. I’ve never felt this kind of lonely.

A friend was over Saturday evening, my hand was so bad that I just couldn’t type to her. We finally ended up using the alphabet, which was pretty sad.

Following a report that, “God’s a sadistic fuck who let His only Son commit suicide for the press coverage,” God’s press secretary issued the following statement.

“God does in no way condone the act of suicide. Contrary to recent reports, Christ did not commit the act of suicide, but rather, an act of Free Will and Faith in His Father. God judges all, and judges Christ’s actions to be completely free of sin. None may question His judgment, because He said so. Amen.

Neither God, or Christ were available for further comment, as reports indicate that They’ve hopped a train for the coast, accompanied by the Holy Ghost.

Your hand is the dead weight dragging you down into nothingness. It’s cold and dark, lonely and empty. It’s lifeless life, you’re a living corpse filled with conscious thought. You sink slowly, quietly, waiting and wanting to hit bottom. You find no peace, no comfort, no end.

Endings used to scare you, but not anymore.

I have to say, I couldn’t be more disappointed in the way Battlestar Galactica ended. I cannot believe that such an intelligent, well-written, often spectacularly dark series ended like an episode of Touched By An Angel. It’s as if the writers said, “Idea! Rather than tie off all of our loose ends with smart writing, rather than, you know, tell a good story, let’s just answer every question with, God did it. We’ll mean this literally, and call it a day.”

Battlestar Galactica, yet another thing ruined in His name.