mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Tag: Happiness

You’ve loved this much before & know how it ends

Knowing & behaving are cousins, but only
kissing cousins. To be fair, well, we already lost.
——Whores know better than to kiss on the
——mouth. That’s how you mix up work & love,
——esp. when both are pleasurable. But I havent
——learned that yet, or ifI have, I cant
——quit doing it. You cant come back.
There is inside me a powerful critic, good & useful
& worthwhile when pointed at a great many things.
But at myself, in a depression, it is nothing but a
magnificent rot, spreading horrible into everything, esp.
what I love. The peculiar genius is to connect all
that makes me happy back to some triggering incident of
unhappiness. ‘Your grandmother is dying & you’re too
old to be enjoying cartoons.’ ‘Your family is in pre-mourning,
and you dont even bother to tell them about those you
love or why.’ ‘Everything you write is embarrassing,
not just too you but anyone who is connected to you.’
——Your happiness is no less worthy.
I dont see how ‘I ruin people’ is a good addition to my
resume, no matter how accurate it is. She knew better.
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The first chemical dependency is happiness.

Everything is

going to be all

right. We just

have to try

real hard.

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Just for a moment

When I was a kid, I went to church because my parents wanted me to. Later, I had friends I wanted to see and besides, it was just the thing to do. So why now? Why am I sitting in this same backrow pew I’ve been in every Sunday for God knows how many years? Routine? Do I need stability in my life so badly that I have to get up every Sunday morning and sacrifice another hour of sleep, just because I always have? Is that why everyone else does it?

The faces, surrounding me in half-empty pews. Bored faces, sad faces, but mainly happy faces. An empty happiness. They see me and they smile and I smile back, but it’s fake. It’s all a terrible sham. I see them every week but I have no idea who they are. They think they know me, but they don’t. All they can see is a clean, healthy veneer, and not what’s underneath. But I look happy.

Maybe that’s what it is. I need the fake happiness because it’s the only kind I’ve got. Pretending to be happy is better than being genuinely miserable, isn’t it? I need to be reminded of what things used to be like. See the fake people and pretend to be someone real so I can remember what real people and real life felt like. Remember a time when people were actually happy and I was too.

I come here and sing about how I love God, hear someone tell me I love God, and for a moment, just for a moment, I can, and I can feel him love me, too.

And I’m in heaven.

Then it’s gone, and I’m back to being myself, loveless and unloving, back to being myself, pretending to be someone better. Trying to fake it until I make it back to heaven. Trying to slip the veneer back over the rotting carcass, but it never fits quite as right as it did before, and it never will again. I miss an hour’s worth of sleep for that moment, and the rest of the week I tell myself it’s worth it.

The sermon’s over. We’re holding hands. The choir is singing. Everyone is singing. I’m singing, too. I hate singing, but I pretend not to.

[Original title: “Pretenses”]

Gutter of consciousness

The unseen, the unheard, the unknown, the unavailable, the infinite, ineffable, indolent, incapacitated, articulate, article of faith that sweeps me off the threshing floor into the Great Fire as it burn higher and consumes my dry flesh, not meant for consumption in this world or the next.

I am a whore and a harlot, a slut and a starlet. I devour the flesh that pleases my eye without concern for source or why, but I need it. I need it like I need air and I must have it or else I’ll die. Starve and shrivel up and my unquenched thirst will parch me.

But to eat, to eat is to sin, to eat is to enjoy and that cannot be. It cannot be. The utterly vile desires of a base mind, a corrupt mind. But I live in a corrupt world. Do I not deserve to enjoy myself as I see fit? As it is fit. Is not God at fault for being pure in a world that is not?

I am justified in my action because I am a natural man and I behave naturally doing the things that come natural to me, and doing them with pleasure. Nay, gusto. Shall I stay in a moral torpor when I can be sinfully vigorous?

Is not sloth a sin?

If I do as I please, then it pleases God. He wants me to be happy and it makes him happy to see me happy. So that should be my greatest method of honoring him, no?

I am a created being and if he is my maker, my faults are his. Not mine. Certainly not mine. I am a wind up doll and he wound me up wrong and the wounds I feel and inflict are from his very hands, albeit it indirectly.

I am justified in doing evil because there is no evil. There is only existence and nothing after and I should feel rapture because I shall not be taken away from this place. I shall die and find myself disappointed with oblivion.

What greater sin is there than disappointment?