I am not happy go lucky. I am the dangerously unhappy, borderline psychotic, got unlucky, found you trapped in a tomb only to accidently trip you, watch sadistically while you die from strange mummy bacteria you inhaled, then shake back to reality, shoddily administer the antidote and apologise so much that you wish that the bacteria would’ve gotten to you sooner.
Long fucking sentence and personality type.
I am the kind of idiot you sigh before inviting them over. You love/deeply appreciate/pity me. You call me. We speak. You, in your enthusiastic tones ask me to join in. Hey! Would love to have you here! Hey! I can not wait! See you! See you back atcha! I hang up and I sigh because I know, we both know, what is happening. Yet I arrive because I have some fucked up ulterior motive. Then throughout the night I obsess over a thing that was said and piss you off. Or I end up doing something so ridiculous that you fall in love with me again.
Don’t worry, we’ll both regret it. But I think thats the thing about love. Injuries.
It is always about me. My self deprecation has too deep an attachment to the self part.
Everyday I witness inescapable truths about myself. And I witness them through your eyes. Through your silence. Through your unveiled words. Through memories of conversations where I watch myself gesticulate the continuous disarray of my mind. Where my words rapidly tumble out helpless and apologetic. Where I see myself crumble in the heat, I see it from the other corner of the room and I think to myself, “Why? What happened?” And then the other me just makes eyes at me. I sigh and hang my head down. This is not going to get better.
I find it so amusing, how involved I am with myself. I find it amusing how rigorous I am with clumsiness. How I could be that person who registered to a club only to find out that everyone joined the other one. Now I am the only living member of a club recently renamed “The lonelier hearts club”.
Everyday I feel like I am vacuuming myself out of my body. I can feel my desperation sucking out the calm, stuffing it in the paper bag with other shit I try to control but I can’t. So it spills over, staining encounters, ruining white blank pages, leaving circles in open books. When you watch me from afar you can answer the 20 questions about me. When you come closer, you risk slipping into sullen highs, each more exhausting than the one before. I can’t be your lucy in the sky with diamonds. The maximum I can manage is highly reflective mirrors.
I find it so amusing how I draw people in. I send anonymous messages to strangers, after watching them for days, deciding if I like them or not. Crossing the line between a creep and a poet. They soon find themselves attached, interested, intrigued. It’s like being in a cheap thriller movie- the best friend is the killer. I’ll call you soon, I’ll message, write passages, letters, drown you in my misery and madness. You’ll be sorry for me, try to convince me, “you don’t have to do this!”, then stab me nonetheless. I won’t blame you. I would have done the same.
The fact that this writing doesn’t seem to come to an end is testament to a special kind of bottomlessness. Like Spongebob Squarepants.