The Obscure

So according to my doctor my life is pointless and will always be filled with pain and misery. Chronic migraines and Bi-polar disorder are the two most difficult things to treat, apparently; so I am going to spend the rest of my life suffering terribly from both of them with very minimal relief.
I came to a decision the other day. Instead of putting a nice big hunk of fucking lead through my brain, maybe I'll just do what I've wanted to do for a long long time now. If I play my cards right I might be able to escape my current situation with a bit of bread, and then maybe I could go on a road trip. I'll buy a month-long greyhound bus-pass or something and see what I can see.
Of course, I won't actually do that. I will just sit here on my scrawny ass and feel like shit all day long, wishing to god that I had the balls to drop all this petty, useless, arbitrary bullshit and go do something worthwhile with my life. And what a run it will be, I'm sure at the end of all this I will have a deep sense of self-satisfaction, knowing that I am the only human being ever to accomplish absolutely nothing at all throughout my entire life.

So... here I am again. I just want to give up. I don't want to have to try and be a person anymore. I just want to lie in bed and clear my mind of all rational thought, so that I might escape the tedium of my day-to-day existence.
It's a sad thing when a guy loses enough of his self-respect that he will write all this whiny fucking bullshit on a public place like this. It's a sad thing when I know full well that my Mother will read this entry tomorrow and feel shame, and yet I continue to pour my pathetic mind out onto this computer screen because it... it is my only real addiction. Some part of me likes to show off my insanity. Some part of me likes it that people know how crazy and depressed I am. I'd like to tell you that those rants I write sometimes, those long, angry literary screams that are filled with what my mother calls "raw expressions of rage and despair," the ones where I say that I want to rip my teeth out of my mouth and chew my own face off with them; I'd like to tell you that that was just poetry. I'd like to be able to say that I don't really feel that way, that that kind of thing is crazy to me. I'd like to tell you that I don't get urges to go outside with my big old Louisville Slugger and start spattering the brains of random gentlemen all across the pavement. I'd like to say all those things, but I'd be lying. There is a rottenness that I think lies deep within the human psyche, and I know I am not the only one who has to cope with it. I have never met a single person who could qualify as normal.

Tonight I think I may kill myself. This is the first time I have honestly felt that way for a number of years. Why? Fucked if I know, man. There is no point to my living, all living does is hurt me.
I need something. I need something now. But I don't know what it is; and I sincerely doubt all you fuckers have any more of an idea than I do.
Maybe I'll just go play with my knife. Maybe this time I'll finally slip and jam it into one of my eyesockets and put an end to this farce. But probably I'll just go and lie in silence for the rest of the silent time until morning comes, and then I will go to work and bury my self-loathing in menial labor for a few hours, then maybe I'll suck down some drugs and sit in a tingly haze for the rest of the day, until the night comes again and brings the ghosts back.
Michael is here. I concede the point. There is another man.

Nobody will understand these words, and I do not expect them to. I just had to say them, and I'm sorry that you, my closest friends who I have now isolated myself from, have to read them and wonder why I go on the way I do. Truly, I am sorry. But the other man is here, Michael is here, the Immortal You, and I no longer have any choice in these matters. Take it as you will, I don't really give two shits.