My heart is on fire

I spend a generous part of many days metaphorically sucking dick.  It is a depressing fact about my life.  But it’s all my own choosing.  I have no one to blame except my own rotten self.  Almost no one wants to face the truth about themselves and admit what disgusting, pathetic and useless things they are; laughing and fucking and shitting and being worthless.  Why is there is so much hatred inside me?  Why does almost everyone repulse me?  I am constantly living in the moment-right-before.  Does no one understand this?  Please stop looking at me.  Please stop asking me for things because you’re too worthless to achieve anything yourself.  What is this thing staring back at me in the mirror every morning?  I hear myself screaming more and more these days.  There are far too many false faces.  Compromise is death.  I love the amount of devotion we give to things we don’t give a fuck about.  Let’s all whore ourselves out.  We love being whores.  Look at that smirk, right there and you can feel it burning hot and making you come, such glorious and grotesque physical stirrings.  How it makes me want to slice off my own face, or at least give myself a cute little Cheshire grin. 

 

Why is everything so ugly?  How can we all force ourselves to laugh like we do?  Does no one else have a desire to thrust a pair of scissors into their lap during those moments?  You shouldn’t have babies; you shouldn’t go out in public.  Please everyone stop pretending we are friends or that we meet on some kind of common ground.  There is a dull ache in my forehead that grows to a persistent throb that eventually becomes an intense walloping pain whenever I think about any of you. 

 

My personality is melting.  Spinning somewhere, we’re dancing and we kiss and there are tears in someone’s eyes.  This won’t last beyond the night.  Your hair is black as coal and then it is sun kissed blonde and then black again.  Tell me about the book you just read.  Show me your creation.  You calm me.  And I always want to feel this way.  And I only occasionally think about dying.  “You’re such a sad, pathetic thing but I love you anyway.”  Speak to me in a language I don’t recall.  What color are your eyes?  Misery followed by ecstasy and back again.  You’re shedding your skin in the garden and then there are two of you.  The evil one comes to me and the good one only whispers in my ear.  I create idols and they damn me. 

 

The other miserable day I went to Best Buy to purchase Madonna’s new album Rebel Heart.  I was specifically looking for the super deluxe version which includes the album proper and the extra tracks of the deluxe edition as well as a second disc with several new tracks and remixes.  Alas, they did not have this much coveted item and I was ready to blow a fuse when I was temporarily placated by the sight of Rob Zombie’s new live album Spookshow International Live.  Those who know and despise me best know that I absolutely love live albums and will go the ends of the earth to obtain one from a favorite artist.  I frequently come into contact with people who do not like live albums and when I ask why through clenched teeth they invariably give me the same horseshit answer that they can only hear the audience and how they hate that!  I’m baffled by this response and can only assume the live releases they’ve heard are bootlegged concerts recorded by audience members on their phone.  Live albums are soundboard recordings straight from the in-house boards you idiots so the sound is pointedly not going to be a muddy mess.  Whatever though, to each their own as the kids love to say when not they’re shooting each other, doing drugs, making babies and ensuring future welfare dependency.  I love live releases because of the rawness, the passion, the verve, the intensity and the pure beauty.  It was hearing the live version of Si Te Vas by Shakira from her 2004 release Live & Off the Record which ensured my love for her voice and music would be eternal.  I cannot overestimate the importance of recorded live music.  As for Zombie’s new disc, it’s a good live record.  It’s messy.  It kicks out the jams. 

 

Eventually I found the deluxe version of Rebel Heart at another store and I did not hesitate to make the purchase with my credit card so I could accrue more debt. I’ve listened to the album several times now and find it to be inspirational as a scattered, forceful and conflicted piece of art, balancing Madge’s classic themes of spiritually redemptive struggles and equal parts deranged and detached sexuality.  The melodies are sweeping, the instrumentation lush, and her voice a full and impassioned guide through these amorous and odious tales.  It has saved me these past couple days and reminded me of the bit of truth that still remains here. 

 

I’ve recently considered purchasing one of those model kit things that one puts together and paints.  I sense it is something which would help calm my restless spirit and cleanse the stigma of my degradation.  I’ve narrowed down my choices to roughly nine thousand.  Batman seems fun, Green Lantern too.  But I also considered Frankenstein and/or his bride.  There’s also an Elvira one and a Vampirella one.  I just can’t decide.  Maybe I’ll just blow my brains out with my daddy’s gun instead because that would probably also calm my restless spirit.  Sometimes I think wearing makeup and women’s clothes would also soothe me. 

 

I don’t have the body of an underwear model, that’s for sure.  I’m a disgusting pig of a man.  If I could wear a mask everywhere I would.  Why don’t I?  What’s truly stopping me except my own fears and insecurities?  How can anyone stand themselves these days?  All you fuckheads care about is money.  I remember the first time I spoke to someone like that.  Even at that young age I recognized the degenerative evil behind those avaricious eyes.  That’s not entirely true; there are other things we care about.  We mustn’t wait too long before the necessary swapping of body fluids.  Let me jamb my erect pulsating and beautiful cock into your deep, wet and all too tempting opening of the flesh.  This disgusting curved appendage of mine, an alien tumor-like growth that squirts a milky prize and aches to bond with this viscous and aromatic open wound.  I will do this as many times as we like and when you or I find someone better we can move on.  Let me pour as many things into my body as humanly possible.  I am so cute when I’m loud, especially in groups.  Please teach me and touch me and mold me and tell me what is important in this world.  I desperately need to know what is necessary to thrive and survive, this is so important.  I want to be an ignorant fuckup of all trades!  Please let’s keep pretending that it all means something, we are all perfect and pretty and unique snowflakes and this is most definitely love that I am feeling!  Love is everything and it makes me do everything.  It makes me touch myself and touch others (in their hearts, metaphorically speaking).  I am a little toy soldier and I do whatever I’m told.  Thankfully, I’m nothing like you.  Look at me, I am so hip and edgy and sexy, I don’t need to conform to any of your antiquated ideas because I’m my own man.  I travel in packs sometimes.  I can come at any time and on anyone.  I can hear the elks bugling.  Off in the distance you can see my latest conquest.  Let me flip over on my stomach for you.  I am my own fucking man.  Maybe I’ll just cut my tongue out and staple it to the wall.  People are so horrifying.