Elton John- I Think I'm Going To Kill Myself
I feel the coarse rope tighten around my thin, porcelain neck. It scratches and burns against my sensitive features as I instinctively try to pull it away. But instincts aren't enough to overcome my lugubrious nature. I don't quite feel engaged yet. I pull it tighter, so the airflow is deeply constricted now. I struggle slightly as breathing becomes laborious. My face growing redder; my eyes beginning to bulge. My feet strain for solid footing. One more forceful tug and I wouldn't have to feel the pain any more. No more worry, no more mania. No more all-encompassing sadness, no more frenetic energy of a life half-lived.
People sure like to spout off about things they don't know about, rather than, say, research the subject, become intimately acquainted with the facts, and then formulate an informed opinion. Oh no, that's far too scholastic for the pseudo-intellectual set. They'd much prefer to run their horse-sized mouths about speculations and false perceptions; in an effort to mangle reality into something that is much more palatable to their warped fantasies. I blame boredom and lack of exercise. Maybe things aren't going well in a relationship, or a career isn't what they dreamed it would be by now, but for whatever reason, narrow-minded, peanut-heads decide that they just have to say something, about every God damned thing. Nobody fucking cares about other people's opinions. That's why I write this drivel here on the deep internet. So no one has to care. I can get this horseshit out of my system; spring-clean my neuroses until the next wave of junk. I keep things anonymous, I don't name names, because my self-expression shouldn't be about lame one-upsmanship. But there are horrible truths out there. I hate to break it to the Xanax-ed cheerleaders of the world, but not everything is fantastic. And pretending things are great, when all around the world they are not, is not only insane, but it's rather obscene. To try to thwart any expression of negative emotion or event in an effort to selfishly pretend they don't exist is pretty fucking evil, in fact.
I'm sorry reality doesn't fit in to your fairy tale landscape of supposed-to-be's, Ratchet Face. Part of growing up, part of maturity is accepting the futility of certain inescapable truths. Channel it into something more poetic than phony concern. Where was all that concern when you left him high and dry, May 2011? Where was all that concern when he got in that bike accident, huh? Did you even visit your little Poodsie? Or did you just wait until he had moved on to pretend like you gave a shit? It was all about you and your grand performance, it wasn't about true love, romance or any of that bullshit. It was all feigned. Just another desperate, look-at-me attempt, by a mediocre actress, and that's being generous. That's why you lost. That's how I "did it." I was genuine and you were not, dum-dum. Take a look at your reality. Tweet. Twit. Twat. Who goes from cackling, to stammering, to a crocodile tear-laden performance dripping with insincerity in under four minutes? What an act! I bet you keep your Oscar statuette right next to your Grammy. No wonder you have to comb through clothes at the Salvation Army, to sell at a 200% markup, acting isn't exactly your forte. Also, your shots in the dark fall flat, much like your voice, because they don't even contain a kernel of truth. It must be really uncomfortable for you to see some of your old reality being approached so differently. To see someone else with what you once threw away. I bet you feel old when you look in the mirror.
Cleanup Woman- Betty Wright
He really doesn't care about you. What is it going to take to get that through your deformed skull? Jesus, you are dense. No one wants you here. No one cares to hear your opinions, especially him He didn't want to hear them when you were together. Or should I say when you moved yourself in? You are an annoyance to him. You don't know him because you never cared enough about anyone other than yourself to know him. I gave myself fully over to him, and I must take the good with the bad on that. But he in turn, gave himself fully to me, something you never will experience. You are always going to be his discard. You'll never match even a tenth of the intensity we have, you rhinoceros.
You're a twit. You haven't got the first clue about "him." The more I write about him, the more he loves me (and the writing.) I'm the one he lusts after. I'm the one he never wants to leave. I'm the one he calls his wife. I'm the one he wanted as the mother of his child. It was never you, even when it was you he was with. You'll never understand any of this because you'll never exist on that plane. You're forgettable. Your obsession with him and I is telling, though. If your life out there is so rich and full-bodied, it seems strange that you would feel the need to look back so often. One thing I know, is that when the world is my oyster, there is simply no time for lovelorn reflection. Maybe you should concentrate on your own life, your own boyfriend, and your own pursuit of art, so you don't have to be so petty and sour. I'm tired of you, much the way I imagine Chris grew tired of you. Don't try to disrupt my family again. Later, pink gorilla.
I know the truth hurts. I fucking get it. But lies hurt worse. They hurt much more in the long run. I made a promise years ago to never live my life in a way that I had to lie just to hold my head up. That's the antithesis of integrity. I don't want to lie just to be a member of a society that I don't agree with anyway. (Adapted from the Groucho Marx philosophical truths collection.) Telling the truth alienates me from damn near everyone, except for those bright and truly wonderful few that also believe in the truth. Thank you so much for being in my life and demonstrating such strength, in whatever capacity, though you may not know it, but you inspire me to keep going. To keep fighting for what I know in my heart is right. These intense, event horizons are worth so much to me. You are unafraid and unabashed to be yourselves, to feel the full range of human emotions and to express those emotions to others. Even if it's just posting a melancholic song, to talking about the existential malaise that comes with an overdeveloped brain, you all help this little neurotic not only maintain, but create. A thousand thank yous aren't enough to express how meaningful it is. It's hard to always feel lost at sea. Our own brains can deceive us; delusions, hallucinations, mirages, madness, caused by so many manners of stress. Sometimes, I don't even know what direction I'm facing. I'm grateful to have these touchstones of reality.
The reason I don't fall into the inky blackness of despair is because of my daughter. I don't have that luxury anymore. She doesn't deserve a world that already places her a few rungs down the ladder just because she lacks a Y chromosome. She must learn to be unafraid of opposition, because with her intelligence, and sense of independence, she sure will be facing a lot of it. She shouldn't have to watch her mother be abused and think that's how women are treated. Because abusing me is tantamount to abusing her. Too bad everything I said is true. Too bad I can't be more selfish like you filthy pigs. Instead of taking care of my responsibilities, I could be sipping margaritas on the sundeck of some salty dog's fishing boat, not giving a fuck.
As much as you want to lie and say you aren't going to read this, or you aren't going to say anything, we both know you are full of shit. "I mean, obviously, I just read these because I want to see how you're doing." Hahaha. Yeah. Fucking. Right. You scan these to see if you're mentioned, you oatmeal-for-brains, piece of shit. You're not fooling anyone, psycho. You can't seem to let go of this. A real dog with a bone. And you're seriously barking up the wrong tree with this one. And if you ever even utter one errant syllable toward my daughter, I'll show you the true meaning of the word "animal," you cavernous-cunted beast. Tell your boyfriend to do everyone a favor and stick his pencil dick in your mouth so you will shut the fuck up, for a few minutes, anyway.
"I don't know why she has to go sticking her big, ugly nose in everything," - Husband.
"The ancestors of the girls I've met lately would have burned women like you at the stake." Still one of the greatest things anyone has ever said to me. Thanks for understanding this radical, Reginald Tootsie.
Gimme Some Truth -John Lennon, care of a wonderful purveyor of truth... (Thank you, Tim). The perfect song for the occasion.
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