The Obscure

Ah. Once again, night-time finds me here; tending to my thoughts like an animal tends to a festering wound. Squeezing the puss out of my flesh with my teeth, sucking the rotting pieces of my body down my throat, lest they infection take hold of my body as a whole, and swallow me.
The doctor's cures do not seem to be helping me with my ailments, tonight. The doctor's cures don't seem to be doing a great deal of helping with anything, come to think of it; save get me doped up enough to forget my woes.
I wonder what good ol' doctor Gilson would say if he knew how often I fantasize of violence? Yes, I have told him about my self-loathing, and he is medicating me for it the best that he can. But to tell him of my fantasies of the destruction of the Other? To tell him that the laughing faces of every vile human on this planet, up to and including your own, bears the mark of the Other? I can see in all humanity a piece of the Other, I would cut a wide swathe of blood across the neck of mankind, and set myself to die in flames, if it would eradicate the Other. He has no name, no face, only Loathsomeness, only a disgusting, rude, vile, unmentionably perverse nature; the Other is the part of myself that gives me my sense of humor. The Other, the Beast, is the part of myself that keeps me up nights thinking of smashing a young man's face to pieces with something hard and blunt--for no gain aside from the experience and the release. The Other is the one who laughs at me while I fumble through my social life, while I break my promises and disappoint my loved ones; he laughs and he shoves fragments of fear and hatred and lust into my once happy mind.
I know that I created the Beast. I created him so that I could have a good heart, and he could have a rotten one. As with Les Enfant Terible I needed a guinea pig in which to put all the unwanted parts.
But he is stronger than I am, and he knocks around my good mind and makes me hate, and makes me cry, he pounds and pounds against the inside of my skull and makes me hurt, he numbs my mind so that I cannot feel the emotions that a normal human would; and then he shoves all my guilt into my chest like a razor-sharp icicle.
He climbs inside my eyes, he makes me see him inside everyone I know. Through the eyes he makes me wear, everyone is spiteful and mocking. Everyone knows my secret thoughts, everyone knows that I am controlled by this malicious being.

But all along, I've just kept on singing.
Tabletop Joe, I'm Tabletop Joe
Now everyone knows, I'm Tabletop Joe

*Continue*

Man, I cannot leave well enough alone, even when I am depressed about the futility of life. Note to self: Don't listen to Alice when you are feeling psychotic and depressed.
Additional note to self: In order to avoid becoming psychotic and depressed, don't listen to Alice ever.

So I am sitting here listening to Alice, which is one of my favorite albums, but it's totally depressing and insane and... that's pretty much it. I wasn't comfortable just sitting there and grooving like I usually do though, so I came on here and began to add to the obnoxious exercise in introversion that I had already completed.
I drove around for a couple of hours with my cousin Dan today. It was a good time, I've realized what a good guy he is. He really is a great dude, he is as smart as hell, too. I hope he can find his niche, cause once he does, BAM! Herpes.

Every now and again, I realize just how awful of a writer I am. To hell with this, I am going to go to bed now. Feel free to not comment on this post if you don't want to, nobody ever says anything pertinent anyway.