12/21/08

It was always a guarantee that I would die young.  It was just something that I sort of understood and accepted unconditionally.  Thus, I’ve watched the years pass by in a haze, looking out the eyes that I tried not to get too attached to.  I never expected to make 16, 18…21.  And now 22 is just around the corner.

Suicide always seemed likely.  The number of times I’ve made pathetic attempts at ending my own life, the uncountable nights I spent willing myself to live another day, it all seemed to add up to suicide.  In fact, suicide runs in the family—I don’t think anyone’s succeeded, but we all seem to try.  When I was 9 or so I figured I would die young, and by my own hand.

But that doesn’t mean that I’ve ruled out everything else.  I never wear my seatbelt in the car, for one.  I walk alone at night in one of the most crime-ridden cities in the country.  I walk out into traffic without looking, I overdose, I pop pills incessantly.  And yet, even when I’m stoned and wandering down the middle of the street by myself, no harm ever comes to me.  It’s like I’m cursed with some terrible blessing.  I will never die.

I used to pretend I was God.  I would mostly do it to irritate people, who seemed unnerved by a high schooler who could spew vulgarity and blasphemy without even the slightest hesitation.  I was God, I was great, I was immortal.

I guess you could say I’m a narcissist.  I do see myself as better than other people, which is odd considering how much I loathe myself.  The fact is, I may be a despicable waste of life, but you, all of you, are worse.  The slobbering masses who exist only to make my life passable, who exist solely for my entertainment and abuse.  But I don’t treat people poorly, oh no, I’m too nice for that.  I just ignore them, mostly, because “humans are a total waste of life.”

Yes, I hate you.  I don’t know you, but I know who you’re not.  You’re not brilliant, you’re not creative or original.  You matter to no one outside of some small circle of intimates.  Your life is meaningless, and when you die you will be forgotten.  You are one of 6 or 7 billion people on this planet who all exist in the mistaken belief that you matter in any way to the greater functioning of the universe.

Yes, I hate myself.  I know who I am, and I know who I am not.  I am not God, I am not perfect, I am not beautiful, I am not precious, I am not a genius, or brilliant, or creative or original.  I am a fucked up mess of a person who is one of 6 or 7 billion people who vainly wants to believe that she matters somehow to the world, but knows better because life. just. fucking. sucks.

And it really does.  Christmas brings it out, Christmas makes me hate humanity with a passion.  We all fight each other, each believing we’re more important that that other person, to the point that we will trample someone to death to get to a sale on flat screen televisions.  This is humanity, this is what we are.  And it makes me absolutely sick.

And yet, I’m here, so absorbed in myself that, even though I can see all the flaws in the world, even though it’s all transparent to me…I’m the person who can do nothing.  Because I am paralyzed within a suffocating web of self loathing and bitterness that no amount of ego stroking will ever get me out of.  I can see it all, it’s all so fucking clear to me…so fucking clear.

But what do I know, really?  I’m just a fuck up, a waste of everything.  A pathetic piece of shit among others pieces of shit, all struggling to validate our pathetic existences.

All we’re good for is fertilizer.

Fuck you all.