This is controlling you.(not humor, long) (403 hits)
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Submitted by Beerpoo (View user info) at 2008-10-26 19:47:29 EDT
The initial shock is gone. You know the feeling. Even if you don't think you know it, you do.
If you are reading this, you no longer control your mind. Giving up will be the best option. You are gripping it so tightly. Clinging on because that is all you know how to do. Let go. I will force feed you every thought that goes through your head. Listen closely. Listen to yourself. All these thoughts you are creating to try to prove me wrong are only making me right. Think about it. If I didn't tell you all of the above, you would still be thinking about lollipops and sunshine. What? You weren't thinking about lollipops and sunshine? You just did. This is how it works. If you are given enough thoughts, you will have no need to create your own. After a while you are incapable of creativity. What we think is creativity is actually choosing a thought from the stockpile in your head. A delightful mix and match of idiocy. Don't worry though. Too late to stop it now. Too late to learn. Too late to be enlightened. All you are left with is the dull numbness floating through your body as rowdy as dead sailors. The feeling you get when you come down from some insane high. Comfortably numb. That is, if you get high. They don't want you to. Everyone wants control.
Your penis is sawed off and put through a meat grinder in your peripheral vision. The gag muffling your screams, it smells like stale urine. What's worse is as you pass out, the small shred of skin between the rest of the world and your bladder lets loose. Everything starts to fade as you hear the splash against the cold concrete floor. The sad thing is, they have you so trained that your last thought is nothing more than wondering whether the new piss stain on your socks will come out.
We all want to be perfect, pure, immortal.
It's all the same, dead, useless feeling. Three weeks later with no returned phone calls doesn't help.
Alcohol only encourages suicidal tendencies.
This is when your idea of fun is looking for subliminal messages in infomercials.
You abandoned all your friends for this girl. They forgot about you long ago.
You get the phone call. The phone call started this. There would be no point without the call.
"Hey man, I heard about you and her."
This is three weeks later.
This is what use to be your best friend.
This is vulnerability.
The coolness of the phone on your ear sends chills up your back. The memories this old phone brings back, they sting.
"Let's meet up at IHOP. Now."
This is three AM.
This is weakness.
This is why alcohol doesn't work anymore.
I can only hope there aren't any of those smelly women truckers there that accidentally mixed their caffeine with testosterone and could easily pass off as men. You can see her beard coming in nice and thick. They make me want to chug a few bottles of Nyquil and see how long I can pretend I am the frog in Frogger outside 7-11 just before dawn.
There is a reason you never see a splat. Those old video games were so violent yet so...innocent?
He's here.
"I hope they have stuffed French toast still; it looked good in the commercials."
I tell him he knows that it's never as good as it looks on television. It's all camera angles and chefs paid fifty dollars a burger.
This is what real life conversation is like. Boring. Stale. Dead. We all try to train ourselves to have fascinating and hilarious conversations when we meet people. They train us to do this, not so much training as it is force feeding. You can try to fight it but in the end they will always get the tube down your throat. These are the conversations we end up having. Another failure to tack on the board.
This is the feeling you get when you steal milk crates from behind the local grocery store and strategically place them on the interstate.
Damn, a trucker. I knew I smelled her when I entered the room. That smell of stale coffee and rat shit. It clings on to you.
Now I need to take a shower.
We sit and eat. I don't want to eat but I force myself to anyway. The waitress comes by and slams down a pot of coffee, showering us with scorching droplets of that brown sludge. She doesn't want to be here, and apparently she doesn't want us here either.
This is an alley hand job behind the same 7-11 before the assistant manager tells you he's called the cops. He has a mustache. Why do all assistant managers always have mustaches? At this hour, you still have twenty minutes. Just lean back and relax.
This is withdraw at three am when you curl up into a ball and keep telling yourself that it will all be over soon.
We stand under the overhang and he lights a cigarette. The lighter reflects off the sheet of water roaring in front of us. Each droplet reflecting the picture it sees. With each droplet is a new picture, a new space in time.
I didn't know he smoked. I nervously thumb the joint in my pocket.
"I'm hanging out with some new guys now. Our old crew just got too...ahh...boring? They were lame anyway. So my friend Jeff said I could come chill with some of his other friends."
Jeff is an odd character. The kind of guy you love to chill with at times to spice up your life, but you would never want him to meet you mom.
I throw a look in his direction and nod towards the cigarette. He stares at me while he takes another long drawl. The stare isn't curious or seductive or mocking. He is just looking. It is the kind of stare you give somebody when you have something to tell them but you don't know if you should.
"I figure it's the only classy way to commit suicide."
I can think of five others.
I notice the fart smell of a shitty old delivery van trying to impress the hookers. These are the hookers he can't afford. He'll try down on 8th next. The thing is, down there you never know what you'll get.
"You should chill with us some time".
I guess I will. The smell at my place is earning me dirty looks from my "top-rate" neighbors.
"Here. Take this."
I take it.
It's a card. A business card of some sort. And a small baggie. I don't bother to look at either of them and quickly shove them in my pocket. There was something in the baggie. The thin plastic wrapped tightly around it. A hell of a lot tighter than those girls across the street.
This is the dead hooker found on 8th.
This is the shitty job that takes more effort to quit.
This is referencing only small exerts of an article. Years of somebody's life were spend finding this information and compiling it and only three lines are important enough for the world to see.
"Just call me."
He steps out into the rain, through the sheet of water cascading off the roof that now separates us. Before he heads to his car he turns around.
Shit, here comes another melodramatic exit.
Another long drag and he throws me that look. I don't know what he is waiting for. Maybe he is trying to set up some scene from a "hit" movie. I haven't been to a movie theater in a year. I am the weak supporting role that is suppose to say some beautiful line only to be upstaged by his audio cue on exit. The light flickers above my head. The classic flash, flicker, buzz. Great. One more thing to encourage him. He pops his collar and jogs through the rain to his car. He is one of those people that like to think that everybody loves him.
We are all the products of our culture. Our sick, twisted society, it thrives off people like him.
I was always smarter, better. I had the ideas, dreams. We would talk. We never follow through. Always excuses.
I might call him.
He roars off. Revving the engine twice before peeling out. Does he really think that impresses me? Nothing affects me anymore. I float through my days with a dull numb sensation. Pointless. Lazy.
This is sleeping until the old spit stench on your pillow makes you gag.
This is weak ceiling fans broken beside you on the floor when all you wanted was to get out.
I walk through the puddles out to my car. When it rains, the city streets shine and sparkle. Almost as if they aren't real. Fake like the streets on video games. Fake like how everything looks from the roof of a tall building.
Something sticks out. Next to my car is a doll. I stop and look at it. It looks old and ragged. Somebody loved it so intensely once that I feel that it wouldn't be right to just pick it up or throw it away. I want to bend down and pick it up. Not just want, but yearn. I start to bend over but I stop. I think about all of the diseases I could get from this doll. We are so trained to avoid disease and disaster. They want us to be immortal.
I get into my car and sit. If this were a movie, cue the slow, sad, but hopeful music. With the raindrops on the roof of the car amplified much more than need be.
When I get back out it is still there.
I drop to my knees. The half inch of water soaks my jeans and seeps into the toes of my shoes. As I reach down for the doll my heart quickens. I feel my eyes widen. I draw in another breath slowly past my teeth. The kind of breath that makes your teeth tingle. I reach out for it.
It's dry.
That's impossible.
The rain is coming down harder but the doll is only slightly damp. No bugs or water come rushing out as I squeeze. It is almost warm. As if somebody was just clenching it between their arms.
There is splashing and giggling behind me. The sound of a young couple making the mad dash through the rain from their car to the restaurant.
I start to turn to look but only get six inches before an object connects with my skull. In slow motion I feel the blunt force pushing my skin apart. The small cushion of tissue is now gone as metal collides with bone. My basic survival instincts send that rush of adrenaline. Wasted. No matter how much I fight it, I cannot move. The flood of pain surges through my skull. My head is turned towards my car as I fall. My cheek slaps against the puddle. There are no little birds, no long tunnels, no bright lights. I land looking at my front tire.
The last thought going through my head, my rims are so fucking dirty.
It is too late to stop.
Too late to learn.
Too late to be enlightened.
-
I inhale.
That smell, it's the much too familiar smell of shit. Old shit. The kind of smell that makes your nose jump and wiggle and persuades you to consider suicide. The only sense breaking through this haze is smell.
I unhinge my jaw and my tongue is invaded with old, rotting Chinese food and death. Both very similar in taste and commonly confused.
That easy floating sensation, the feeling of lying on clouds, suddenly is jerked away and I land. Hard. That flood of pain returns and I vaguely remember anything. Every muscle in my body has been tortured and murdered and hung out to dry. I can feel my blood surging through each tissue over and over. Each heartbeat comes with its own new unbearable pain, fresh and crisp. I can follow it throughout my body.
This is hitting bottom. Rock bottom.
Surprisingly, I can move. Opening my eyes takes effort.
There is no light.
Am I dead?
User Reviews
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-10-27 17:39:02 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2008-10-27 15:24:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i just wanted to express my appreciation that you let me know in your title that your post would be long.
thank you.
i didn't read it.
Submitted by Shlongy (user info) at 2008-10-27 16:22:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
What the fuck is all of this jibber-jabbering about?
Submitted by sage104 (user info) at 2008-10-27 16:01:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I liked this.
Submitted by ghola (user info) at 2008-10-27 15:24:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i just wanted to express my appreciation that you let me know in your title that your post would be long.
thank you.
i didn't read it.
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2008-10-26 23:55:54 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Meh.
Submitted by Doodles (user info) at 2008-10-26 22:43:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
Well you're purty good at this hur uber thang ain't 'cha?
Submitted by Franger (user info) at 2008-10-26 22:39:34 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by locksly (user info) at 2008-10-26 20:05:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
lolz!!! you said it wasn't humor 111