The Spiral Theory
I wish I had three bottles of vodka, a bottle of canadian club, and some everclear. I'd drink it all and fall asleep. I love how the inside of your temples feel like pinwheels twirling when you're drunk and you can't see things clearly. It's all fuzzy tinted like a hazed opium room, everything is a shadow, but nothing is substantially real. That's how I want to feel.
I'm in this fucking mood that I hate being in. I hate everyone. If I had the chance, I'd kill myself and everyone I know. No, not really, because in that order, I'd be dead first.
It just really fucking pisses me off that everyone is relatively the same. Full of insincerity, this plasticene fucking lifestyle. How many people have told me they love me? Almost every fucking one I've ever met. Most of them don't mean it. Fuck, the majority of them probably don't mean it. I'm just everyone's something. I'm here to listen. I'm here to talk. I'm here to entertain. I'm here when you need someone to not eat with you. I'm here when you need someone to drink with because you're lonely and depressed. I'm here when you need a good fuck. But what about afterwards? What about when they don't need that anymore? It's like I dissappear.
I am nothing but words and memories and desires. I'm so god-damned sick of giving in to constant self-sacrifice and never once being treated like I'm capable of feeling. What the fuck do you people want from me?! Do you want me to kill myself? I'm almost there. I want to find a canyon in Norway and hide under drifts of snow. I want to freeze to death from the world. I want to be found in a few centuries, this amazing ice woman, and then I'll mean something. They'll cut me open, dissect me, find a way to look into the primitive human's lifestyle.
But like everything is now, they'll never know, what they'll never see in my decomposed, frozen skull, is that I'm laced with this pain. That I am another human condition. It may never occur to them that I was completely fucking typical, and full of hysteria and tears. But I'll still somehow mean something. They'll display me and call me the greatest scientific find of the century.
But that's how it is now, isn't it? I'm displayed and smiling. Frozen into my expectations. So, even when I do die, it won't be so much different. That doesn't give me much to look foward to.
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