A Big, Big Love

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Yesterday. I topped over 100,000 readers of my blog.


My hit counter is spinning so fast that I fear it's going to break. How fitting, being that yesterday was also my birthday. The day of my birth. I can't say that I'm moved over the fact. To me it's just another day, one that I intended on seeing in the rear view mirror as quickly as possible. I don't dislike that I was born, I just never make all that big a deal of it. But what did feel good is to see so many people going to my facebook page and ringing in birthday greetings.



It feels good when people remember you. Or are at least thinking about you. It feels like you are not alone, and I am not for a certainty. I'm just not connected with the world around me. I'm not invested in humankind. There's nothing bad or evil about it, I'm just deficient in that. It's my illness, it's my curse.



I'm taking it easy today, with a double six pack of wine coolers and junk food. I head downstairs to see Dr. G and give her the sob story of my life. I am in no better shape than before. Everything bad is washing over me and I have to say it peels away the skin and makes me numb. Emotionless, without feeling or response to anything. I am being melted into the nether without a word. Do you think I feel sad? Of course I do! I feel like shit.



I don't want to go to the nether. I don't want to not feel pain and suffering even though my capacity for such has obviously reached its limit. I'm tired of feeling bad and miserable and alone. I'm sick and tired of listening to nothing and reacting the same. I want my life. I want to live. It's just that it's not forthcoming. My life is stuck in deep sludge, heavy paste that sucks it down like a beast in a tar pit. Fuck it. Let it go. That's how I'm feeling now. Let it all go.



And then there are the loved ones who have the pleasant platitudes for me. You know them all: "Keep a stiff, upper lip," "When life throws you lemons, make lemonade," "Turn that frown upside down," blah, blah, motherfucking blah. How am I to deal with this shit? Can you tell me? I don't know how to think happy thoughts when the townsfolk have killed my dog. I'm not of the Pollyanna world. I can't pull on my pigtails to make the sun come up. It doesn't work like that.



Shit, even watching comedies on television doesn't bring me out of my slump. "OH, you're just wallowing in your own misery," some say. Fuck yeah! What are you? Daft? I'm like a pig in the sty of Hell. I'm rolling around with my best friend, the Devil, prodding me with a fucking pitchfork and making my fat ass into bacon. Fuck me. And I try to struggle out, but the best I do I waddle around more in the mire. Tell me that I'm wallowing in misery and I'll fucking agree and give you two dollars to go to the fucking store and get a beer, while I sit back and scratch my junk drawer.



When I say, FUCK ME. I mean that shit. I really, really mean it. If this life can't get any better, then fuck it then. Let it do whatever it wants. I'll just sit down and try to stay sober and smile when I see you and shake hands with misfortune and laugh with the rest of the losers on this planet who do nothing but complain about how fucked up their lives are.



I'm not going to complain or cry anymore. I'm going straight to Hell, and I hope they have a marching band and beer nuts waiting for me there, because I've earned it. I'm going to Hades in style and hopefully there will be a float and a parade of corpses. The float will be of a big, cooked pig, it's skin crackling and crunchy. Tiny red demons will be dancing on its surface like licks of fire and I will be the leader of the band from Perdition, laughing and dancing and spinning a baton made of long bones.



I hope the road that we are on slopes gently down- wards, through an avenue of New York city. A ghetto of abandoned buildings and twisted, rusted cars and bleeding corpses waving banners, blowing confetti and streamers. I hope the entire parade walks to the edge of a sheer cliff  in Queens where they fall over and into the open mouth of a meat grinder, which breaks bones and sinew into a patty and sell us all at the corner Burger King or McDonalds.

Fuck me.

Happy birthday, hobo.

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