mad drunk genius

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

Tag: suicide

Ants & maggots, sun & stars — Several Papers from a Severance

I’m interested, but I
didnt quite understand.
——I like making people
——happy & keeping still.

My girlfriend’s nickname in high school was ‘Fuckzilla.’

But my dental dam
cant stem the tide.

Teigen: For a while
I thought you were
useless, but now
I know.

Have a job that does 
good & have fun
doing it.

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It’s OK. I know it is

I’m in a relationship. I have been for coming up on two years, and it’s been healthy & amazing & surprising in oh so many ways.

I have fun, certainly. I love her, and she loves me. She takes care of me & makes me happy. What else is there or could be?

But I cant commit.

It’s the stupidest fucking thing, too. I can always say, ‘Three months from now, it’ll all be over.’ And that makes everything OK. But six months more of anything is abominable.

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‘Are you writing a novel?’ / ‘No, it’s more an insipid.’

——What’s done is done. What’s not wont be again.
I’m sore & tired, everything about me is.
I have no desire for ambition.
——I’m not worried about going to work, just going out to work.
The days still feel long, but they disappear quickly. Quicker.

——Every day I suffer the same stupid, boring people. Blink twice if
One day, this’ll all be behind us. That day is tomorrow. you want to die.
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It ends abruptly

I fucking love drinking. I love it more than anything this side of sex, but I’m usually drunk when I have sex.

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“Half way … everyone is agnostic.”

Last night (well, yesterday afternoon) I had a dream where I had died. I was still around and able in some way to communicate with people and see what was going on, but I wasn’t all there. It was a dream, it doesn’t have to make sense. Just understand that I was dead, and the dreams in which I’m dying are something much less than the best I’ve had.

When I went back to sleep in the early morning, I was in a suicidal mood. Not really suicidal as in, “I feel like killing myself,” more like I let my mind get ahead of itself and view my body doing various things. It’s like tracing out multiple future paths, but not. Overactive imagination, whatever.

So at first it’s concrete things, slamming my head into a coffee table. I guess not really suicidal, but I can see myself getting up, going into the other room and doing that. I stay in bed, of course, but I see it happening as if it is. Eventually I work up to running out in front of a car, then killing myself with a gun. This is the most romantic, masculine way to commit suicide, after all. Phallic weapon exploding into your head or mouth. Maybe the word I’m thinking of is “gay”, not “masculine”. Regardless, I spent more time on this one and realized I probably wouldn’t ever be able to do it. I guess I might, if I managed to disassociate the moment from reality enough, but even very depressed, it would be really, really tough.

It’s not the moment of pulling the trigger and blood splatter that’s all that frightening. It’s the moment after. This is just a body, whatever happens to it is not so important, especially if I’m not around to experience it anymore. But I’m frightened to be nothing (although my non-self will be a peace), I’m frightened to have lived according to the wrong religion. Hell, I’m even frightened of being part of the right religion. The absolute unknown, the unknowable. It’s scary, and scary enough it makes people realize that, and scary enough to plant doubt in even the strongest saint or ardent atheist. This is not to say many saints did not willingly die martyrs or all atheists cry out to God on their deathbeds. Far from it. But when death approaches, the unanswerable questions start to repeat themselves louder and louder and second guessing becomes unavoidable.

There’s a saying: “There are no atheists in foxholes.” Granted. But only if we also accept this:

“Half way between the top of the building and concrete, everyone is agnostic.”

[Original title: ‘Donnie Darko is wrong.’]

My eyes are open.

Suicide is often a major theme in fiction, and a widespread hobby among persons tired of having birthdays. This is common knowledge.

But what exactly is so awesome about suicide? Honestly, we all know it is. Not all forms of suicide are created equal, let’s get that out of the way right now. Swallowing a bunch of pills or cutting yourself, come on. That’s lame. It’s extremely anticlimactic and if you’re a man, you have no excuse. Women can do better, too, don’t get me wrong, but a woman falling asleep or bleeding out is this kind of tranquil scene we come to expect. But it’s still way lame.

When I say “suicide is awesome”, I of course mean throwing yourself off something very tall, or ideally, gunshot wound to the face. Because that’s when you know you’re a badass: closed casket. If there’s something left of you worth displaying, you obviously fucked up somewhere.

See, you have to express how pissed off you are at the world in your death. If it’s just a lethargic, “Oh, I’m filling up the bathtub with my blood,” then no one is going to care. Even if you put it on a webcam, that would be the most boring thing ever. But filming a gunshot wound to the face? Tell me with a straight face that wouldn’t be all over the internet in a day. You can’t. Know why? Because your face is blown off and you’re the most famous person in the world for a couple of weeks.

Bad. Ass.

I mean, I guess you could always try getting through whatever problems are causing you angst and try to make your life better and not hurt your loved ones, but FUCK THAT. Dude, your girlfriend broke up with you. Someone stole your iPod, it’s time be an hero.

Death to impress.

Nigh-suicidal tendencies

I wish I was dead.

No, I take that back, not in the least because it’s sounds depressing and I’m not the least bit depressed right now.

I wish I was a moment away from death.

Now, the explanation. It gets a bit convuluted, so feel free to skip this paragraph and go down to the next one. Time is a line, and the present is really just a point of perspective on that line where you or I can look back. What we can see is the past, what we cannot, that’s the future. But all of the points on the line already exist. (I’m not arguing for any sort of predestination or fate here, I’m just saying that we will do what we will do because from an outsider’s perspective we’ve already done it.) Each point on the line is infinitely small because with each proverbial tick of the clock that goes by, we move forward and our present self dies while we give birth to a new one. The moments always exist, there’s just a consciousness that flows in and then immediately out of them.

The rest of what I have to say is just as “shallow and pedantic” as that, but hush. I don’t want to your criticism Mr. I’m-probably-not-reading-this-anyway.

I want to be my future self a moment away from death and I want to be him forever, because he’s the me that has the best perspective. He’s the me that is as close to omniscience as I’ll ever be, able to look back at everything that has gone before.

My current self hates him because the needs of the present are at odds with the needs of the future. I want to spend my money now, but to do so means I won’t be able to later. I want to eat fatty foods, lay around, and jerk off. (I’d like to get laid, too, but let’s try to stay in the realm of reasonable possibilities for the time being.) But my present and future self hates my past self for wasting its time, instead of suffering and being productive. I want to reap the rewards of my past’s sacrifices, and at the same time I want to give nothing to my future self.

But regardless of what I do in life, I will become him. The me that is myself will stay where I am, but the me that is my consciousness will continue on, and being the religious fellow that I am, it will continue on past the death of myself and even time. He’s not the end, but he’s the end of the me that resembles me to a reasonable facsimile.

I really need to get more sleep, because this is all coming out like I wrote it while smoking a joint, and I swear I didn’t.