The title hints at the end of the world, but you’re probably wise prepared for me to wax lyrical. (Eventually).
Its just the end of the world as we know it. This coming week is going to be something else, in this winter of firsts. Fake it or make it, baby. There’s no other option. So exciting that I can’t sleep (just for a change).
People have been reading this, which freaks me out: how many of them thought about my vagina? Serves me right for mentioning it. (Do you know that I know when you google me? Or click a link? WordPress is watching). Anyway, none of you liked, commented or followed. The worst, to be boring. Talking to myself in this vacuum, with a listless apathetic and derisive audience; my narcissism and sexual habits on display, so that you can all look away. Shit! Melancholy. Someone said this writing is honest, but that I’m seeming jaded. This is what you get when you peel away the onion layers: watery eyes.
Anyway, that’s not what I came here to say. I’ve been nauseous for months; that’s not it either. I read a quote from Alanis Morisette tonight: brave action is often followed by grief. I am not sure exactly what she meant, except yeah, for me it has been. Lots of brave action, and lots of fucking grief. But while grief is one thing, guilt is another, and I am done with that.
I don’t wanna write to be inspiring; I do that in another places. Here I dance with my shadow. I am being awesome again, and this week and in the coming months I am gonna blow the lid of what awesome I thought was possible. My shadow says that I have wasted too much time fucking around with boys and plan B’s for it to work. In the cold space underneath my hope is a pile of discarded judgements and beliefs, all damp and muddy with dew. I disturb the peace. I fail to meet your expectations of what I ought to be. I put out my compost after letting it get moldy, I run late, and I sleep when I want to. I don’t take shit from my parents, and I’m not meeting their expectations either. I have been poor my entire life, and I am terrified of success. I have yet been unable to make a relationship work with stoned, cheating, lying boys, despite my most earnest efforts (though I may try again in future). I seem like I’d be fun, but I turn out to be a nightmare, for the type of guy who likes to have fun. I am particular; I don’t like to wear shoes, and I am going to challenge every assumption you have. I want a better world. I didn’t have a large group of friends (in school, or now) and people hating me mystifies and devastates me. I leave the door open, I don’t cover my food. I talk with my mouth full. I want you to be better than you are, and that disturbs me.
Cement cold on soft flesh.
I am an unlikely candidate for business. But I don’t know where the fuck else I fit.
Worse than failing at a shitty plan B would be fucking up the plan A. Though supposedly worse than that, would be denying myself the attempt. In truth, my awesome is probably mediocre. This is the miniscule prospect of standing on my own feet, in a society I tend to despise. Just for shits and giggles.