So, after about a year of pretty heavy “not drinking”, I’m going to try again to quit. — I need something to replace it with though. Something like, I dunno… slamming my dick in a car door or something…
Circumstance is going to give me a bit of enforced sobriety over the next two weeks. I expect I have quite the battle in store as the monsters I drugged with it wake and climb toward the surface.
- She: "Normally, people don't think about killing themselves all the time."
- Me: "How is that even possible?"
"Poor little fellow! One only consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang is over, his sufferings are at an end forever. A sod covers his gentle form, and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve that for his miserable survivors."
~ Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, “Frankenstein” chap 7.
- Him: "Doesn't that hurt?"
- Me: "Yeah, but that's okay."
- Him: "Who told you hurting was okay?"
- Me: "Well, if it's not, then I'm utterly fucked in the head."
- Him: "..."
- Me: "..."
I’m nothing more than a collection of flesh and bones wandering about on the planet, essentially at random.
…It’s not enough.
- He: "What were you thinking?!"
- Me: "Well, obviously I was thinking that I would get away with it and not need to explain myself."
The problem is that I almost completely lack a sense of identity. I don’t know who the fuck I am. And that means that I cast about trying to find anything to cling to. — The danger, then, is in identifying with the fuck-wad I see in the mirror everyday.
I was watching a thing… it doesn’t matter. In this thing there was a tombstone dated “1885 - 1914” and I thought ‘Wow, turn of the century.”
…Then I remembered that it’s 2014 and people will think that of me someday.
- Her: "You sound like you're doing good."
- Me: "Good. That means I've found just the right tone that lets me fake it."