While it is still early, I found myself ready to retire for the evening not more than a half-hour ago. It would be wise of me to do so, as I have nothing of interest to contribute tonight. This is made particularly unfortunate by the inexplicable desire to post something, even if it is unfit for human consumption.
I decided recently that I don't want to die via suicide anymore, that suicide doesn't interest me the way it once did (as a borderline fetish). I don't cut my arms or legs to get the mock rush of impending death, nor do I burn my feet and arms with fire and acid. I'm glad for this, as doing such things makes the world an ugly place, on an emotional level even moreso than in terms of appearance. But without my recently stitched wounds and hospital stays, where is the evidence of the battle that is taking place every fucking day of my miserable life? To burn painfully, alone, and with as little complaint as possible. That is apparently my goal now.
Where once dominated at least the aesthetics of nobility through strife are now the silences of a defeated soldier long after the war is over.
I don't want to romanticize this shit too much. But trying to kill myself may have been the best career choice I ever made. I never had a single thing going for me, despite having everything going for me. And what nearly killed me twice? Affection!
But now that those moments are past me, hopefully for good. I almost died in hospital after taking 200 Benadryl in 1999, and I briefly went into a heart fluctuation in Copley Place (Although I had no problems with allergies that say.) I have many stories, about that and getting attacked in the Men's Dorm, and ECT.
I should be dead, but instead I float around and plague the living with money problems or emotional problems or whatever. I'm an energy grease spot.
I have a story idea. We all know the story of how Superman arrived in a pod of some kind in the American mid-west (ostensibly the home of values and peace and justice). He was raised to take care of the wee folk and defend truth, justice, and the American-way (that one still makes me nervous).
Imagine if the little tyke didn't land in Kansas or Idaho or some fucking place in the USA. What if he landed in the small Polish village of Smopka, where he was picked up by Adam and Mikhail (a transplanted Russian Jew). Adam and Moishka represent everything there is to be Poland before the fall of the Soviet Union; they are Communists, atheists, losers, nihilists, and an acid-tongued homosexual couple. After 20 years of reading Nietzsche (Superman!) and 30 year old Saturday Evening Posts', Superman has been transformed into...
What? I picture him as a guy using his powers to help turn a good price on transmitter radios, who dreams of schilling the rubes in NYC, and can always find a HUGE potato if need be.
My story is more inspiring to the average man, and more believable. But I don't care. I should have gone to be earlier tonight. Talking to me is like talking to a streetlamp.