loa

Everything out of order now because I didn’t bother to set it straight during the initial time.  or something to that effect. There’s monochrome everywhere. 

I was laying down and thinking about suicide.  Of course if he didn’t have someone who depended on him he likely would have made that logical choice a long time ago. Fingers hurt now.  I had a pillow over my face while listening to some lovely music and I kept imagining a beautiful ethereal woman coming along and lying on top of me and sticking the barrel of a big loaded gun against the pillow and blowing my stupid brains out really royally fucking up my face but of course the pillow would deter the large mess which would occur sans pillow.  It’s nice to imagine such a lovely woman sometimes coming along and commiting this act. 

I was reading something the other day and it felt good.  I drank a lot of wine before and after writing this I think.  I’m your man.  It’s odd.  Listening to Lana Del Rey makes me feel better but then I realize I’m not really depressed.  I think.  So if I’m not really depressed it doesn’t make sense to feel better.  Feel better from what?  But I’m think of killing myself before and after I listen to her music but for some reason it’s better while and after I’m listening to it.  But mostly while I guess.  But that’s not depression.  Not really.  It’s more just a nice constant thing.  But then I listen to her music and it’s like a nice blanket wrapped around me.  or like a hug.  But not a like the types of hugs everyone else has ever given me which feel fake and awful. This feels like what a real genuine loving hug must feel like.  So I guess that really is something better.  I don’t really know maybe.  It just feels good listening to her music and hearing her voice and reading her lyrics. 

And at one point I had to laugh because I realized suicide is only romantic and interesting for the good looking beautiful people.  And of course I am not attractive so my suicide would not be particularly interesting or beautiful at all.  It would just be another foul person scraped off.  another foul useless person gone.  Which I suppose is a good thing ultimately but it wouldn’t be beautiful.  But that’s probably okay, right? It’s just that my face is so motherfucking ugly that even if a bullet went right in the middle there and caused my face to explode it would not make an appreciable difference as far as looks go.  It would only make a bloody and brainy mess and little pieces of bone and whatever and maybe parts of my eyeballs or my tongue and teeth or something depending on where in my face I shot myself but boy it’d probably be an awful mess but it wouldn’t make an appreciable difference, you know?  and it wouldn’t be romantic. 

I remember the doctor asking if I’ve had these type of thoughts and I always said no but she hasn’t asked in a while.  It’s funny though.  They never feel bad.  They are comforting thoughts.  Maybe it’s just knowing the option is always there.  its nice to think about self harm.  It prevents any thoughts about anyone else.  I was looking at some photographs earlier and this felt really bad so I stopped.  And I realized everything gets distorted and twisted around and I think maybe my vision is not so clear on some things. 

Of course, I’ve thought about all the reimbursements i’d have to make.  It’d only be proper after all.  Should say now I never proof read anything.  Sorry.  But yeah, only appropriate.  But if I drop all reimbursements in the mail at night and send out corresponding emails in the middle of the night and then shoot myself shortly thereafter everything should arrive on time and no one will be ripped off and everything will be happy and everyone will go on their way and no wrongs will have been done and I will be dead.  Yes I will very dead.  Oh yes I will be very quite fucking dead and my silly  brains will be splattered all over the walls and no one will really give a flying fuck and that is richly appropriate and exactly as it should be and I would be righting so many wrongs. 

All only thoughts of course.  It’s strange.  So much vomiting going on.  All over everything.  How many stories he’s listened to.  No one ever made the proper list of priorities.  Everything is disguised now.  It’s all about letting loose with the useless shit which has filled your life.  And the recurrent fantasy again. He’s too afraid to make the purchase because he knows he’d more than likely use it on himself one night.  Relating to something on the wall.  The comforts are always feminine.  And now an instrument of death.  Desire for death. Death fetish, his own death fetish and this is awful.  But no, not really because it only applies to him and no one else and were he dead it wouldn’t really make a difference and it would actually probably be a good thing.  And nothing anyone says really registers anymore and there is never any breaking down permitted and the only escapes come from things which are not people because everyone around him is needy and terrible and he supposes he is needy to but with himself scraped away that need not be a problem anymore. And these are all just things spinning around and don’t really matter and don’t really mean anything.  Brains out and all.  Probably shit myself afterward.  No, that’s definitely a certainty.  Yes, my posh flat would surely smell of piss and shit afterward and if that lovely ethereal woman did not come to help me out I would be leaving a nice big abstract on the walls.  I’m your man.