Jokers, fakers, liars, cheats. Null values. Men clinging to the peripheries of life, praying for untruth. Their hidden disdain for life being channeled away from human beings and onto the surrounding environment in the form of mass extinction and earth poison. Plagues of starvation and death tolls of war exchanged for islands of plastic and seas of soot-choked skies. How will we clean it up?
Flashbacks to Brent Lockwood dressed in
a blond wig harassing me in bed very soon after I started getting off
thinking of Melanie's boobs in 7th grade. Always spying and waiting for the perfect moment to trigger. Most men
here were weird and desperate. Openly flinging their junk around in
the open, expecting praise. Invading privacy, expecting control. Excreting filth from their mouths and minds, expecting validation. What world was this? Where had I landed?
I felt drowned by their sickness, surrounded by their perfect
schizophrenia. I absorbed it and spat it back in disjointed ways. Our
conversations were broken and our eyes never made contact. I couldn't
even feel my heart. All I knew was it felt like I was playing a sad
game for show. The purpose of their game was to absorb cruelty and shame, process an endless
convoy of guilt trips, and regurgitate back to their rotten faces a
malformed version of whatever was the expectation of how they
thought I should react to their contrived scenarios. Mostly it
was just awkward smiles and feelings of anxiousness. I didn't have to
know to know. The evidence was in their body language, their facial
expressions and their meekness. The few true ones there were made
sense right away, but they were rare. Was there an outside to this empty sphere of delusion?
Even now they fought to backsplash me with infected ideas. 'Frames.... Strings...' the
man on the escalator right behind me muttered frenetically to his
wife. The sharp hints of self-validation in his tone were assuaged by
his wife's submissive whimpers of affirmation, though in truth she
was mentally sidestepping the notion of fun altogether. The constant
ego-maintenance was mentally draining. In many cases, a mind
spent on smokescreens and obfuscation worked out for the man, to
better restrain her in a state of low-energy thralldom. Would either of them ever be happy?
Living through a Chinese water torture
effect of whispers and side-shows, like the dude in the ratty car
getting sucked off by his gr friend driving through an intersection
right in front of me. Random buzz-kill commentary from strangers who
only want attention (the bad kind).
It's hard work to mentally unclog all
the filth. Need to do lots of stretching, meditation, and enjoy good
music. Sometimes you turn into a catastrophe that needs to be broken
through. It feels like the human Rogue Rococo popping thistle tea on
Kel'Thuzad at 50% hp. Wearing black and red blood-fang armor, ripping
through your terrible mess, the second wind of a tangled heart
slipping through a few beats before the muscles go tight and the
feeling goes cold again, eventually getting lost in a sea of digging
and repetition that has some meaning to somebody always analyzing but
never feeling, always imitating but never experiencing from the point
of view they were partially programmed to subliminally dissect. Would they ever stop obsessing and micro-analyzing the misguided rock of their own brainwashing?
So much time with these folks go buy
and I begin to forget what real human conversations are like. What is
the warmth felt around real friends? The communication of positivity
and constructive thoughts? The language of love? Muscle memory and
DNA expression says I won't lose these things forever, but some
things are better off this way. Some things are better left unspoken.
Me? I choose to be happy.
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