Your Perfect Verse is Just a Lie You Tell Yourself to Get By

1473565304818.jpg

Humanity thrives itself on drama and I don’t get where it comes from. What was the first push that forced us to weave stories out of our human life? Take from the concrete in our world and start filling in the shadows images from our mind? I don’t know.

My ex texted me.

– I saw you today. What are you doing in town?

I didn’t reply. I showed the text to Mary and she laughed.

“What are you going to say?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

I put my phone on my chest.

We laid out at the Smith park, the three of us, in the grass. It was chilly, but the Sun was out and heated us up a bit and the snow was mostly gone. The forecast said that it would snow tonight, so we might as well enjoy being outside before Earth hides the Sun away.

Mary rested her head on my thigh and Hugh sat a few feet away from us reading an E-book on his phone.

The world could end like this. At this moment. I’d be fine with it.

Don’t let me fool you, I give a shit about life. Most of the time dealing with the struggles and trials come to me I get irritated and I want to give up but I never want it all to end. And I don’t hate everything. I hate a lot, but everything is too damn much.

Just too damn much. I don’t get how people can unironically say that they hate everything.

Why the fuck you get outta bed then? What the fuck you want from life? Nothing? Go kill yourself. I’m serious! If you hate everything, why wake up? It’s because you don’t.

Your perfect verse is just a lie. “I hate everything,”; “Everything sucks,”; you’re full of shit.

Kevin Drew said it best: YOU HATE IT ALL BUT YOU STILL USE SHAMPOO.

It’s obvious what he means. You hate this life but you still take care of it. You hate your garden but instead of uprooting everything you tend to it. You hate your house but instead of lighting it on fire you still sleep in it. You’re a fucking liar. You care but you hate that you care because it fucking hurts to care and you’re just being a pussy and acting like you don’t care is easy and honestly sometimes an effective medicine against the pain that comes with caring.

That’s all it is.

You’re afraid of the pain that comes with being alive.

You’re weak.

And you don’t want to admit it so you act tough and irony is an easy way to act tough. Apathy is the cheat code to activate toughness. But it’s fake toughness.

When I realized this everything changed. It took a long time but after it hit me that my apathy and my irony that I more or less held as a characteristic so near and dear to me that to be separated from it might as well spelled suicide my life got better.

I’m still working on it. I’m still a loser but at least I give a fuck and I’m not afraid to. And I want to make everyone give a shit too.

So I’m ready to die.

Giving a shit.

Waiter Letter 3

o-suburbs-facebook

Dear V.,

I’ll tell you one dream. I imagined I wrote it to her, your sister, it was just easier that way.

I’m sorry if this is a little much for you, but you asked for it:

I was outside my old house that I took you to. The one where I lived with my mom for my last year of high school.

I walked outside and my brother and your brother (that’s you, V.) were riding together in my brother’s truck. They insisted I get in and I did. Your brother explained at length how they had just moved here due to some European war. It was convincing and I was convinced and I believed him and didn’t ask why he chose this town over any other. Or why no one told me. Or anything.

But we drove out of my neighborhood and got on the highway that cut across the plains like a giant black scar pitted between dirt like scar tissue and the sun sank below the horizon as if someone far out of sight was pulling it down with a string.

A new housing development, your brother said.

We pulled into a neighborhood.

He got out and opened my door and I looked at my brother and my brother told me that he’d come pick me up later tonight or tomorrow morning or, never. I said cool and hopped out and me and your brother went into your new house.

He had me take off my shoes and we went into the living room where your mom watched television. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t in any language at all. Just murmurs. Your mom’s face was blurred as if some tear shaped form of water hung in front of her face. I couldn’t see the details clearly but I could tell when she was looking at me.

She asked how I was and I said fine.

She looked concerned. She asked how I was again and I said fine. She nodded. I felt, but didn’t see her eyes trying to pry me open.

Your brother grabbed my wrist and pulled me into the kitchen and he made himself a sandwich. He asked if I wanted anything and I told him that I shouldn’t be eating right now. He didn’t ask why and he ate slow like the meal was something he looked forward to. When he finished he pulled me along again and this time we went up stairs. I felt like a rag-doll along for the ride.

The stairs winded up like a corkscrew and your brother pulled me along quickly and I almost fell down a few times but I kept up alright. At the landing on the second floor I saw your door crackedopen just slightly and the light poured out from the crack making a scalene triangle with the point pointing towards me and your brother. I heard you sing and my heart moved itself into my mouth and I couldn’t breath because lumps began growing in my throat and my lungs felt too thin like they were going to pop and collapse like balloons. Blood swirled in my head.

But,

your brother grabbed me and pulled me along up the stairs to a closet and he stepped inside it for a moment and came out with a sling shot and pulled me back down the stairs to the landing where he readied his sling shot with some lego piece and aimed it at your room.

I realized what he was doing and I quickly walked to what I think was his room and I sat on his bed and rubbed my temples with my head in my knees. I heard your shout and scream playfully and your brother came into the room and hid himself behind the door and you came in quickly and smiling and stopped dead when you saw me and your brother came out from behind the door and pushed you further into the room and then he stepped out of the room and closed the door and you tried to open it and it wouldn’t budge and then you turned around.

We stared at each other for a time. Well, you looked at me. I looked everywhere else.

And then you came and stood by the bed and looked at me with deep concern your eyes wide and then you slowly walked towards me and I backed away and onto the bed and I told you to

fuck off

go away

stop

fuck off

and you kept coming closer and you were ignoring me and you crawled on the bed and I was up against the wall crying and I felt weak and embarrassed and I felt your arms wrap around me and I felt like a child and I placed my head on your shoulder and you told me you were sorry and we started kissing and I closed my eyes and fell into it.

A wash of purple came over me. I was in a strange ocean and I floated suspended in the color as it swam in front of me and I felt serene and at peace. I opened my eyes and you were there waiting for me and we kissed again and I was back at that place and also there with you and I could feel my troubles fade and then I opened my eyes again and–

I was in my room. The ceiling fan made droned and thudded in a slow rhythm.

I looked at my clock.

It said 8:34 a.m.

I rolled over and slept till noon.


Nothing else to report on my end. Just going to work everyday in this dead town. How is Europe?

peace,
scott

My Friend Nik

My phone rang, I rolled over and answered it.

“Hello?”

“Scott? Is that you?”

It was Nik. “Yeah. What’s up?”

“It happened again.”

My brain was sluggish, it was 10AM and I sleep till noon. “What did?”

“I keep waking up at a strange time.”

Of all the things, my brain went to dawn. I read in a shitty spirituality book that man’s connection to the sun is the most important aspect of life, and your ability to judge it is based on when you wake up. If you wake up at dawn, you’re fucking kickin ass in the spirit world. Based on this heuristic, my life was a terrible sloppy mess.

I told him the heuristic.

“That’s crazy, man, really, but I keep waking up at 9:57AM and I don’t know why. I don’t know what this means.” I wanted to explain to him the concept the circadium rhythm, your biological clock, shit, the fact that sleep and waking are fucking habits and nothing more, but I was tired of this.

I stayed quiet and stared at the ceiling. My life, at the time, was in shambles and directionless. My girlfriend whom I thought I was to marry dumped me for a pretty boy british dude who protested stuff I don’t think he understands. I lived with my dad. I was failing school. I was a vegetarian working as a waiter at a very low-end steakhouse. I was lonely, and I all I really had was Nik. I would talk to him occasionally, my best friend for five years, but he was developing severe signs of schizophrenia and was in complete denial about it.

For a while I thought it was my fault. We both got into drugs together, like learning how to swim or something sentimental along those lines. It was sentimental. We took ‘trips’ together, discuss for hours what we were thinking, where we thought we sat in the universe, what it meant to be a human, where we were going after high school. He once had a plan for our entire group to move to Austin, Texas, together, to stay together. Our group of sever were all going completely directions after high school and it was pretty scary, especially for him, he was the one that linked us all together. Through him I met and befriended some of the best people, and this would’ve been impossible on my own because of my introversion. So he wanted us to go to Austin, but that plan fell apart quickly. He could only get 4 of us. I left for Corpus Christi and never linked back up with any of them.

Soon, his drug use increased and he was going down weird thought pathways that he just shouldn’t have been. He felt like aliens were coming soon and were going to save the state of the world. For a while he was convinced Paul McCartney was dead. He thought he was gay. Then bisexual. He thought he had a crush on me. He got dumped (unrelated) and became a mess. He thought about suicide daily, which despite my extreme tendency to melancholy, I couldn’t help. His case was different. He wanted to go to the afterlife; I wanted to stop existing.

In result: I couldn’t stand talking to him. I dropped him for 18 months.

I received phone calls and texts from mutual friends. They said he was way off the deep end. He stole a car. He tried to fight cops on a neighbor’s roof. He told friend’s parents that he knew them from a past life where he was a Pharaoh and they his sworn followers. He stole another car. He was institutionalized. He was living with his mom. He ran away. He came back. He moved in with his dad. He stalked his ex-girlfriend. He stalked his ex-crushes. He lived with a friend’s mom. He stole her bike. All our friends hate him. Leaving only me.

When I came back to town to visit my girlfriend, I made a point to go see him. My girl and I went to his dad’s house and picked him up. He looked the same, acted the same, made shitty jokes, talked endlessly about Harry Potter, the only major difference that I could see was his sadness. Melancholy ruled him. All he could talk about was how lonely he felt, he couldn’t connect to anyone, he thought this was all a big joke. Something like the Truman Show; we are watching his life and he is the clueless actor.

“I know you know it, Scott.”

“What?”

“What this is.”

“What ‘what’ is?”

“I know you know what I’m talking about. I don’t know why you hide it. I just want to know. I just want to be free.”

“You are free, I don’t know anything more than you do.”

“You do know. You sit outside of all this. You’re time is done. You sit away from it all. You’re just here to entertain me, to poke me.”

I laughed, “Alright man, you know more than I do and that’s really it.”

He sighed. “I think I’ve come to terms with it.”

“That I don’t know? That was pretty fast.”

“No, my schizophrenia.”

“Yeah? That’s good man, how’d you come to terms with it?”

“A dog told me.”

I took him to a bookstore and bought him some books to take his mind off shit. He promised he’d read them. My girlfriend said she was proud of me for doing this, which felt weird. I just wanted him to fix his shit, this was entirely selfish. Delay the inevitable of his schizophrenia, which is fucking irreversible. We took him home. I met with his dad and he didn’t recognize me and freaked out when he realized who I was. He said, with Nik present, that he wished Nik would follow my way. I didn’t say it, but I agreed, but he ruined that for himself. He’s stuck and will never get better because bio-mechanics is a joke and for some reason schizophrenia is deemed necessary to exist. I don’t get it. This was the last time I spoke to him period. He vanished.

I miss my best friend.

It’s strange how connected people are these days, yet it’s still so easy to slip off the grid. Change your number. Delete your facebook. You’re gone. No one knows where you are. Worse still, most don’t care enough to find out. If I could, I’d drive by his house and sit with him and talk about the Strokes and the Killers and laugh about high school and the times before he went crazy and how beautiful Emma Watson is.

But I can’t. Distance is rough.