justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

7/13/2019

I finally started working again on Wednesday, today being a Friday. The re-start was long delayed thanks to the bull shit amount of paper work I had to go through just to come back. My hand was in working order on the third more or less, but it still took until now to come back thanks to the all the bureaucratic nonsense they put me through. I did the math today whilst stylizing my budget spreadsheet and improving its tax calculations, and as of this moment, I am ovver $13,000 in debt, and that’s with only the $4100 or so of medical bills I’ve received so far. I expect I’ll be $20,000 in the hole by the time its all said and done.

In slightly brighter news, I kickstarted my diet today by only eating a total of 269 (teehee) calories, aka a few small handfulls of sunflower seeds. Admittedly that’s largely due to the fact that my father was home all day and thus all I could do is scurry to the bathroom to pee and refill an empty sprite can from yesterday with tap water. Once he and my mother have gone to bed I’ll probably sneak out and grab a pair of 100 calory peanut-protein-bar thingies, but it’s 1 AM now, so it’ll count for ‘tomorrow’. Maybe I’ll grab an extra pair too so that I can actually eat something tomorrow if my father is home all day again.

I also got some writing done, on some random story I’ve tossed around in my head for a bit. I only wrote a bit over 1200 words, but at least its something. I also tried working out, by which I mean I did around 30 curls with a 35lb weight, 40 behind-the-head raises with the same weight, and about a dozen crunches. Not much, but it got me to sweat enough to encourage a shower. I’ve been doing my damndest to fight off depression today. I flipped through a dozen Netflix shows to try and find something to keep me occupied before finally settling on a James Acaster stand up compilation. Genuinely one of my favorite comedians of all time, never fails to put a smile on my face. I’d seen a bit of the material already from various shows he’s done which is a bit dissapointing, but the newer stuff made up for it.

I tried complaining to two different friends, Ron and Joao, but they both shut me down more or less. I truly am alone in this world.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Been a While

My father broke my hand. He went into a drunken rage and attacked me. He started punching me and I didn’t know what else to do so I punched him back. My hand broke cus I don’t know how to hit worth a damn. Since then it’s been a maelstrom of back and forth with work and the doctors. My mother has said he will pay for the medical bills, which will total in the thousands if not tens of thousands of dollars, but we’ll see. I feel like everything in my life is 1 step forward and 2 steps back. That’s not proper writing form, typing the numbers themselves instead of writing them out properly, but oh well. I don’t remember if I mentioned before, but I haven’t spoken with Kira. We cut each other out. She deleted her own tumblr. I don’t know when. I don’t know why. I hope she’s well. I will always love her. My diet has come to a complete and grinding halt after a promising start due to this nonsense. I had a dream about an exgirlfriend recently. Not a real ex, just someone I dated I suppose. She was a mormon, but she loved me passionately and that is my number one romantic turn on. But we split things off when she confessed she’d never be happy with someone who’d never go to church with her or her parents wouldn’t approve of. It’s because of my broken hand. I posted photos on my Snapchat. A mutual friend of ours contacted me afterwards sharing photos of the time she’d broken her hand in the same way. I dreamt of meeting her parents, whom she’d described as being extremely strict, and of her having a bed shaped like a single person on their side. I think I might be racist though, cus her parents were Asian despite her somehow being whiter than I am. Usually I forget my dreams, occasionally when they feel precognizant I write them down, but on rare occasions I study their symbolism to find truths about myself. This time all I could think was “Really dreams? Laying it on thicker than whatever woman was being described in the thicker than a bowl of oatmeal meme”.

I started writing this entry because I wanted to express some feelings, but didn’t want to bog any of my friends down. I don’t even know if I have any friends. Whitney’s been speaking to me in short, infrequent messages. I’ve been speaking with Ron and Joao a lot lately, but they live in Canada and Brazil respectively so its not like I know them in real life. I hadn’t made any friends at work, and I doubt I’ll be a the prom king after missing so much time.

In the wise words of Vince McMahon, “Life sucks, and then you die.”

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

New Job

It’s Saturday morning as I write this. I started my new job Wednesday, though I wouldn’t call the past three days work. Only one other person (out of our ‘class’ of five) had their background check come through, so all they had us do was shadow people all week. Their systems are so antiquated and user unfriendly that it was basically a huge waste of time, because my coworker and I had no fucking idea what was going on. Oh well, $15.50 an hour for 24 total hours of sitting around isn’t bad.

I also restarted my diet around the same time I started the job. Wednesday was a transition day more than anything, so it didn’t do much for me. Thursday I had six, one-hundred calorie granola bar things throughout the day and for dinner two McChickens with no mayo add ketchup, totaling 1,260 calories. Friday I had two mcdonalds burritos for breakfast, and two taco bell Fresco style burrito supremes, totaling 1,280 calories. At the moment I weigh 210lbs, though I’m sure I’ll be down to 200 by this time next week. Then the real slog begins. I should probably take before pics today, before I get in the shower.

The thing I miss the most is alcohol, though the part that’s actually surprising is how little I miss it. I think about it, and think about going and buying a single can instead of having a meal, but its not hard to say no. I wonder what that’s about. My father’s whole family are alcoholics, and my mother comes from Scotland where drinking is a national sport. I’ve been drinking pretty heavily for the past year or so but I don’t think it latched on its addictive hooks, compared to nicotine for example. Or maybe my father’s toxic alcoholism has left me with a mental shield against ever truly loving it. Or maybe the self loathing I have towards my body saves me.

Anyways, the new job seems like something I’ll enjoy. Its a much more low-key environment than other places I’ve worked at. Surprisingly, in spite of my horrible body and general ugliness, I’m still like, the fifth or fourth most attractive guy on the floor I’ll be on? If we take girls into account, I’m still probably a top ten person in terms of attractiveness. There’s a gay guy who’s a 9/10, he’s definitely the number one in both categories. Oh well, I’m trying hard to stop being in a constant state of “pls love me”, so I’m trying to be less concerned with other people.

I’ve done some writing, nothing serious enough to make progress. Played video games, watched youtube, just in general burned away hours of time. Hopefully I”ll make some progress on writing over the weekend.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Cats

It was my cats that finally inspired me to go and write this. I looked up and there was Baby, staring at me like a disapproving matron. She looked away with an invisible roll of her eyes and settled herself down. I then glanced to Marshmallow. What a goodboy he is. Then I had the sudden and strange realization that there are living beings in my presence who are content and happy. I love my cats, there aren’t any I love more.

Today was a strange day. I woke up and beat Ella, a dog, for barking. I felt bad about it cus she’s old. Then I fell back asleep. I woke up to my mother demanding I help them build a new grittle/grill/thingy. Then I fell back asleep. I awoke to my mother demanding that I build the thing again. I’ve been reading Half the World by Joe Abercrombie. I built the stupid thing whilst drinking and eating jerky.

Now its 4:44 Am on a Tuesday.My sleep schedule is so out whack I don’t even know what do with it. I’ve been awkae for only a handful of hours. Only 10 more days till I start my new job. Hopefully it won’t be awful. I hate jobs. They suck.

Anyways, here’s your journal entry me.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Been a while

Shit’s kind of gone off the rails while simultaneously gotten back on them. The new job is confirmed, starting on the 29th. I hung out with Kira, where I discovered she had indeed broken her promise and brought the physically and emotionally abusive and manipulating piece of shit exboyfriend back into her life. So I took her home immediately, all while practically frothing at the mouth in anger as I berated her for breaking her word and all the other shit she’s done to me. As she was getting out I said to her “Here’s a promise you might actually keep: Goodbye Mikaela.” Because she’d sworn to cut me out of her life if i ever called her by her real name again.

Today is, or was rather, my birthday. Yesterday I hung out with Whit, who got me a video game (Tales of Berseria) and a Houndoom stuffed animal/plushie. She truly is the best sort of person in the entire world. I couldn’t believe she still remembered what one of my favorite pokemon was, even after all this time.

I got my laptop back yesterday finally. Having stopped writing Shore Locked while it was out for repairs, it was hard to get back into it. Instead I started writing another story, about a viking king who was crippled in what should’ve been a simple battle and who is forced to learn how to rely on more than his (incredible) strength to rule and how to trust people. I’ve only written around 2300 words, including a roughly 850 word prologue. It’s inspired by Half a King by Joe Abercrombie, and The Goblin Emperor by Katherine Addison.

My diet is still trash, but I’ve made a vow to cut out sweets entirely, and started by refusing a birthday gift. Today I ate pizza for breakfast, McNuggets and fries for lunch, pizza again for dinner, a chicken sandwhich and doritos, more doritos, and drank a lot of sugary soda and alcohol besides. God, looking back on it, I really fucked my diet up today.

So yeah, its been a while since my last entry, but believe me, me, I’m still a piece of shit.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Sleep

My sleep schedule is fucked

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Yeh

Idek man. No response from Kira still. Whit asked me if I wanted to hangout for my birthday the day before the date cus she works the day of. From 12 AM to 11:59 pm on May 10, I ate: a turkey sandwhiches and a handful of tortilla chips, a tuna fish sandwhich and a handful of potato chips, and two McChickens with ketchup but no mayo, and I started a tall 14%er which I'm still drinking now at 2:36 AM and have another beside me. I literally slepy from 7AM to 1PM today lmao. Last night I went on a weird binge where I read through the past year and a half of Northernlion's Reddit comments, then got on a weird sports binge where I read all the top posts of /r/NFL and /r/NBA. Last time I went on a (weird for me) sports binge was sumo wrestling. Sumo wrestling is fucking dope. I went to Barnes and Noble and bought two new Joe Abercrombie books, Red Country and Half a King. I read the first chapter of the latter, and it's good but the first (two) sentence(s) are so cheesy it hurts, and legitmately I was surprised at the blatant exposition of the first chapter. That said, I'm not turned off at all, and the cover art is dope as hell. My room is looking slightly better after getting rid of 3 mondo bags of garbage and organizing my bookshelf and putting my nightstand back beside my bed where it belongs. Who knows how long that will last. I'm hoping to drink till I pass out tonight so my sleep schedule isn't completely fucked.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Anxious Ramblings

Anxiety has ruled me today. Oddly enough I was calm and confident throughout my interview that I was nearly late for. After that though, once I got home, anxiety curled it's hand around my heart and hasn't relented. I didn't have time to eat before my interview. I think that that was good for me, diet wise, even if I ate like trash the rest of the day. Once I got home, so like, 4 1/2 hours into my day, I ate a McChicken and a McDouble. I had a popsicle later. Then I had another McChicken/McDouble, plus fries, for dinner. No alcohol though. I finished watching the new Lucifer season. It was really good. The Eve story line didn't destroy me, probably because I obviously can't relate to having a single let alone two gorgeous women in love with me. As cool as the finale was, I don't think anything will top the chills of THAT Amenadiel/Charlotte scene. Started watching the new Supernatural episodes again. It was the necromancer girl episode, she's 10/10 waifu material. Obsessed, batshit crazy, and I'd never have to fear death again. I'll get back to Gotham when I'm finished with it. Still haven't had a match on Tinder in almost 2 months. Hell, haven't even gotten (real, non-bot) likes in a week. I just wish I had someone to help, and to help me. I want to not be alone. That's all Ive ever wanted, all I ever will want.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Gonna Binge

Today was a bit of a waste. I have an interview tomorrow with the portapotty company. My day was spent napping, jerking off, watching Netflix, and driving around. Still no word from Kira. Whit sent some heart emoticons. For meals I had toast and milk for breakfast, two slices of pizza for lunch, an itallian sausage on a hoagie and Fritos for dinner, and two random McChickens during my midnight drive. Now I'm about to drink a pair of tall, 14% beers. Been watching the newest season of Lucifer, I'm on episode 5. I think it's gonna destroy me. Between all my abandonment issues and the feeling of never being accepted for the shitstain I am, the Eve storyline will be absolute murder on my soul I feel. Oh well. That's what the alcohol is for. Killing my emotions fast, and my self slowly.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Idk

Today was boring. I ate mcdonalds for breakfast, taco bell for dinner, and a chicken sandwich in between. Some cookies. Two blueberry steel reserves. I played a bunch ch of Path of Exile. Had no contact from anyone. I did have a voicemail directing me to call the portapotty call center I applied for, I shall do so tomorrow at a more respectable hour and claim that I was I working today. Still have over two weeks to go before I get my netbook back. Im lonely and miserable.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Fuck

My computer, by which I mean shotty netbook, broke. I threw my phone in the bed, it bounced, screen became a lovecraftian horror. Went to Best buy cus warranty and it'll be back May22 approximately. Typing on my phone like some kind of fucking Savage. Today I ate a can of soup, a meatball subway six inch, and a hot dog on a hoagie. And a bunch of vodka. Played path of exile and watched Gotham. Fantasy Land (aka the ever persistent scenarios I run in my head to keep myself from falling into despair) has been a Naruto fanfiction where he runs from his village, finds Gaara, goes to hidden rain before which he finds kimimaru, and yeah. Been a boring day. I tried to schedule an interview with the portapotty company, but they were booked full apparently. Kms jfc.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Whatever

I drank all day. I cleaned my room up a bit. Finished watching the good place, skipping the shitty flash back scenes. Took a long, drunken nap. Woke up. Got McDonalds/Taco Bell. Have been cleaning/watching Netflix all night, and now it’s 6:50 AM. Watching Gotham now. Peaky Blinders had too many sex scenes to be playing on my TV, with its higher volume. I’ve got 3, hefty duty black trash bags to the side of me (one of them was already half filled from a previous, failed attempt at cleaning.) and another one still being filled beside me, and an entirely empty bag beside that. I really want to get my night stand back where it belongs. I also want my bookshelf back in respectable order. Previously it was 75% books, 20% cans, 5% dust. Now there’s still a few book scattered around my room, but I’ve dusted all but one of my shelves (I’ll get around to it, it’s the bottom left one where I keep all the old Calvin and Hobbes books, Animal Encyclopedias, and the two years worth of high school yearbooks I actually got.) And gotten a lot of the books where they need to be. I’m still missing my Brachydios figure, though I’ve got his tail-flail-macehead-thing. The stand is broken anyways so it woudn’t be the worst thing in the world to not find it. If I don’t, then I’ve probably thrown it away during a previous drunken cleaning frenzy. People act like that one Asian lady on Netflix’s cleaning method is the best, but clearly they’ve never tried drunken apathy. “Why the fuck would I care about some book I haven’t read since my mother read it to me as a three year old?” you’ll ask. “TO THE GARBAGE IT GOES!” Anyways, there, there’s today’s fucking entry. Go fuck yourself me.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

Drunk on a Saturday

I filled out a job application today, and reconfirmed my need for unemployment benefits.I got the smallest hint of writing done. Ate a bunch of shit. Am already 2/5 of the way through a 750ML bottle of Tennessee Honey that I bought today (haven’t touched the grape fruit vodka I bought along with it.)

I’m feeling extremely demotivated in my writing. I feel like I’ll never be good enough. Kira hasn’t messaged me, even though I sent her a respondable message yesterday. Whit’s ‘death week’ should’ve ended, but she also works during the weekends.

I’ve finished Altered Carbon and moved on to Peaky Blinders. I wish shows wrote female characters better. Like, I don’t hate Polly cus she’s a ‘strong, independent woman who don’t need no man’, I hate her because she directly opposes everything her family is supposed to stand for and treats the protagonist like shit. Tommy’s older brother has done more damage than she has, but I don’t dislike him because at least he’s loyal and loving towards his younger brother. I wish Tommy would just shoot the policeman, but he’s supposed to be on the opposition. Tommy’s sister is constantly shitting on him and generally being a pain in the ass, but she was never meant for that life and isn’t actively trying to sabotage them. She’s a much better character than Polly. I genuinely might stop watching cus of that poorly written character. (Her actress is 10/10 at the job though.)

I’ve been feeling especially lonely today/tonight. I just wish I could have someone that loved me, and prioritized me. I wish someone valued me. But no one does.

I think I’m gonna spend the rest of the night reading. I think I’ll read the Dresden Files over, starting on book 4. I want to read to get better at writing, which is a very different kind of reading than doing it for enjoyment. Rather than enfolding yourself in a novel’s pages and letting yourself be whisked away into another world, another life; you study it. Figure out what makes the book work where yours doesn’t. The person who reviewed my first chapter said my sentence structure sucks. So maybe I’ll look for that. Oh, the reason I’m starting on book four is because everyone says the first three aren’t as high quality. I can’t really remember if I noticed that. I purchased the first book on its own, and then the the next two, and then the next two-three at a time after that.

The Dresden Files taught me an important lesson about books. Sometimes you read a novel and its like a five-star, ten-course meal that you savor and celebrate until its over, at which point you’re left with a life-long memory. You don’t always want meals like that though. Sometimes you just wanna ring Domino's up at three o’ clock in the morning and have yourself a pizza buffet that doesn’t do anything but give you brief flashes of ecstasy as the awful, processed cheese-covered, grease-slicked, spongy-crusted goodness slides down your gullet. The Dresden Files is the best sort of pizza buffet you could ever ask for.

That metaphor is something I came up with months ago. Feels good to finally put it down, even if no one will ever read it.

Idk if I’ll even read tonight. I’m re-watching The Good Place despite having just re-watched it recently and despite being in the midst of watching Peaky Blinders. I just needed something more light hearted.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

The True First Entry

I hope, were I religious I pray, that this will help me someday.

Today I woke around two in the afternoon. I convinced my brother’s girlfriend to go and get me some McDonalds (using my credit card, and with the instruction to get herself whatever she wanted). I submitted the first chapter of my second book to both the reddit critique thread and to a website I found. I wrote 800 words as of the time of this writing of chapter two. I critiqued someone else’s work. The writing seemed fine, but the actual story arch and plot was way out of wack, told them to cut the first five chapters out so it’ll actually be interesting (in much more polite terms, again, I behave well.)

I received nothing from either Kira or Whitney, so it was an exceptionally solitary day.

Fuck, writing this is actively making me more miserable. I’m gonna stop.

[justalosersdiaryofmisery-blog]

A Necessarily Sober Night’s Ramblings

    I’m sitting here in my bed, writing on a shitty, hundred dollar netbook that rests on a book thicker than my fist to prevent overheating. The floor of my room is covered in a disgusting salad of dirty laundry, trash, and books, all sprinkled with a frustrating amount of cat litter from the box a few feet to my right. A space heater with more personal space than anything else in the place keeps me warm in the mornings and nights, and the fan that’s blowing my hair at  the moment keeps me cool during the afternoon and whenever else I’ve been drinking.

    I’ve got Altered Carbon playing beside my word processor; just started watching it. It’s impossible for me to focus on any one thing, so its there just to keep the excess ‘brain energy’ or what have you busy while I try and write this all out. All this nonsense. The lamp resting on my nightstand, which is currently sitting in the midst of the chaotic disaster that is my floor rather than being pressed up against a wall, is annoying but helps keep the anxiety down a bit.

    The anxiety is still drumming my heart and shaking my hands, but it would be worse in the dark. I enjoy knowing what’s surrounding me. If I turn off the light, I can only assume what rests in the darkness. I don’t think there’s any monsters hiding beneath my bed amidst the beer cans and paper plates, I’m not a child. But there’s knowing, and then there’s knowing. When the light is gone, the whole world becomes Schrodinger's fun house.

    Plus, if I turn out the lights, the odds I step on a sharp piece of aluminum on my way to the bathroom magnify ten fold. Foot lacerations are the fucking worst. Slicing your palm isn’t that bad because you don’t always have to have your dick in your hand. Plus, for the most part, your always aware of the palms of your hands. You forget the bottoms of your feet, and the trail of blood you leave behind is a bitch and a half to clean up.

    Not that I’d clean it from my own carpeted floor, but there’s certain expectations for the world outside the stained and battered walls of my bedroom. Smiles required, pleasantries demanded; it’s a whole other ball game out there. That’s not some dramatic piece of speculation either. When I was a child my parents threatened to beat the frowns from my face and decried my silent coming and goings as disrespectful disobedience. Now that I am a man in age and burden if not status however, I am free to move more freely. The habits have already taken root though.

    Despite my already volcanic anxieties simmering and sizzling beneath my flesh, I’m having another energy drink, my third of the day. I went to the store earlier for something fizzy and calorie free to drink, and despite knowing I must be wary of caffeine, I was swayed by a little sticker promising ‘3 for $5!’. It’s a rare moment that I’m without thirst, but unless I have sweat through my clothes in exhaustion (an even rarer moment) or am exceptionally hung over, drinking water gives me heartburn.

    It’s a touch allegorical, really. Water, that most basic material of life, burns the ever living shit out of my throat.

    People don’t take caffeine seriously enough. It’s just like any other drug, if a bit milder. At first it puts a bounce in my step, then in a few minutes my mind will be racing with dark thoughts and fears, and if I go without it for too long my head feels like someone is taking an ice pick to the top of my skull. Sometimes the initial jauntiness is worth it though. That ‘sometimes’ keeps me coming back.

    There it is. Reading this back, you won’t remember the pauses between sentences, the distraction filled minutes as Altered Carbon takes priority over writing between paragraphs. I say that so it won’t feel quite so jarring when I say that anxiety is carving a butcher’s knife through my gut and up my sternum after just mentioning the jauntiness caffeine can bring.

    Anxiety and just a hint of anger are filling me. Thinking on it now, and exploring this idea for the first time (though I’ve brushed against it like a virgin schoolboy ‘accidentally’ bumping into a pretty girl before), I’m realizing there’s always anger somewhere in this stack of flesh. Anger I was bred into, that was taught to me, beat into me. It’s always there. Just, I keep it buried away and hidden. Once, I did that so that I wouldn’t get in trouble, so that I would be safe. Now I do it so that the people around me will be happier.

    The only people I’ve ever intentionally physically hurt are my male family members. My younger brother, in adolescent rage reminiscent of my father’s, has been strangled, punched, thrown, and kicked. It was never unprovoked, but always unearned given the severity. I never bruised or truly damaged him, but still. Trauma is trauma. The words I spewed at him were instinctively and specifically chosen to hurt him, to damage him. It’s left me with a quandary similar to that of the chicken and the egg. Did his little man complex come from my infrequent but scarring abuse, or were the assaults unleashed by his constant needling and provocations?

    Then there’s my father. Him I tried to kill once. He was drunk, and violent. He was roaring and screeching with anger at my mother, worse than normal. I went to figure out what the fuck was going on, he put his hands on me, and I snapped. I threw him to the ground, and amidst his punches and slaps and scratches I began to choke him. Tears and spit pouring from my face I bared my fangs and produced more animalistic sounds than actual speech.

    My mother was futilely trying to pull me off, begging me to stop. I didn’t care. I was beyond reason at that point, my id was in full control. Like a flare in a moonless night however, a thought brought me to a stop. I had my second day of work at a new job the next day, and couldn’t afford to spend at least the night and next day in jail for murder. That lone, paragonal thought amidst a sea of frothing rage was all that saved my father’s life.

    Other than those two examples however, I’ve never allowed myself to be a violent person. Or rather, I’ve never had the courage for it. I get the fight or flight shakes just from passing a slow moving vehicle, let alone a face to face confrontation. I wonder if that’s who I am, or who I was made to be.

    My first girlfriend, who could technically be called my ex-fiancee if you don’t dismiss a six month, hormone-fueled, teenage puppy love engagement, was victim to some verbal abuse throughout the two or so years we spent together. She was a piece of work herself though, and although I cringe to think back on my words and feelings back then, I don’t think less of the man I am today for them. I see it as character growth. She cheated on me, lied to me, and was certifiably crazy herself. She and I have both come a long way since then though, and I’ve learned to be a better man based on the awful example I set for myself.

    I say we’ve both come a long way, but in reality, she’s got a college degree and is dating a successful musician while working for a governor. I’ve got a GED, am entirely alone, and as of the end of March jobless. There was a brief spike in my life a little over a year ago. I only weighed one-hundred and sixty pounds, I was on the second rung of the company I worked for’s ladder, I had a girlfriend, I was happy. That’s all long gone now though.

    See, even though I hunt for zero calorie sodas and energy drinks, I still eat too much food. I drink too much alcohol. I lay around in bed like a fucking pile of ooze. I was going to call myself a slug, but even those invertebrates get more exercise than I do. I probably weigh Two-ten by now. Two-fifteen maybe. I’m sure if I were sitting on a scale right now it’d read in the two-twenties, between my clothes, belly full of spaghetti sauce-drenched pizza, and general fat ass.

    As of today I’m twenty-two years old, five-eight in the morning and in shoes, with short brunette hair and just the one tattoo, a coyote on my left arm. My upper right arm and my left ‘tit’ are covered in scars. I have a handful spread over the rest of my skin; faded ones all across my legs, one across my stomach, one on my right ‘tit’, three partially faded bands on my right forearm. All self-inflicted, obviously. I have a small patch of fur all across my chin that struggles to reach the center of my lower lip, stubble spreading back from it towards my throat, and a curled moustache above my mouth.

    I fucking hate when television shows have non-English parts. It prevents me from being able to just spend the extra ‘brain energy’ on them, and instead I have to divert more of my direct attention to follow along.

    Sometimes I want to carve out my own eye. Even though my left eye is (diagnosedly so) the weaker of the two, whenever I envision it, it’s always the right one I slice out like an avocado pit. The cut would start close to the center of my forehead and run all the way down to my jaw, stopping just a hair over the line and onto my throat.

    I don’t think that comes from any weird sort of mutilationist fetish, or one of those weird (Ha, who am I to judge?) mental illnesses where a part of your body feels alien. I think its just a desire for attention? If that’s the right way to phrase it. I want to be special, look special. All those bad-ass pirates and fantasy characters have facial scars, typically over their eyes, and I want to be like them. I want to be special.

I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to feel like I actually matter. No amount of self reaffirmation has ever been enough for me. I’ve always needed ‘affirmation’ from others, and I’ve rarely ever received it. And it can’t be just anyone who gives it to me, it has to be someone special, someone whom I respect. The words of those I subconsciously deem as ‘below’ me mean absolutely nothing, no matter how reverential or supporting.

As for who I respect, which isn’t the right word at all, I’m not really sure. Beautiful women. Impressive men. Members of authority. People with experience in fields that I respect (this time it is the right word). I’ve had coworkers who practically begged me to hang out, less than attractive women who nearly molested me in their flirtations. All it ever did was annoy and nearly disgust me.

It’s a strange dichotomy, my ego and self-loathing. On one hand, I’m disgusted by myself. I look in the mirror and see a hideous, fat, disgusting, waste of human existence who could die tomorrow without the world so much as blinking. On the other hand, I recognize my intellect, sense of humor, virtues, and what few skills I have as being exceptional.

I hate myself, but somehow still place myself above others.

It’s funny how little self control I have compared to what little drive I have. I crave love, yet haven’t been able to muster the willpower to eat healthy and exercise. I crave fortune, yet haven’t been able to finish writing (Really writing, with editing and everything) a book. I crave attention, yet stay hidden away in my room and when out in public avoid standing out at all. When I crave a McChicken, I’ll drive to the McDonalds across town at 3 AM for it.

I guess I’m just short sighted. Back when I still played chess, I could never think more than a single move ahead. When a problem has a single-step solution, I can find it near instantly, no matter how obscure or obfuscated it is. Throw in just one more step, however, and suddenly I’m lost as an orphan looking for his mother in a department store.

That applies to long term goals too, even when the answer is spelled out for me step by fucking step. Step one, cut the calories down to less than two-thousand. Step two, take the dog(s) for a walk everyday. Step three, repeat steps one and two for the next six months. Just like that, I go from fat lard-face to looking like a young Leonardo DiCaprio.

But I just don’t do it. The one time I succeeded with a diet, it was based on routine. Every morning on my way to work, I’d get two McDonalds burritos with mild sauce and a large diet coke, no ice. Every night after work, same thing. Right now, jobless and hopeless, there is no routine in my life. That’s just an excuse though, I know that. Doesn’t mean I fucking do anything about it.

It also helped that back then I spent every night with a woman I was in love with. Kira. Black haired, thin as a skeleton, cheek bones like daggers. Her nails were more like claws, and she’s never without her eyeliner that stretch out like wings from her beautiful brown eyes.

When we met, she hated me, so of course I sought her approval. She hated me just because I sat in her spot one time. She, never to my face, called me an inbred hobbit. After several random encounters at work (which is where I met her), we also bumped into each other at the vape store. A casual, friendly conversation lead to her messaging me at work the next day, and a friendship quickly formed.

After that, it didn’t take long for love to form. One sided love. I asked her out, she rejected me. My love diminished but quickly re-blossomed. I confessed full-blown honest to god love to her. Again, she rejected me, with a full (and requested) letter explaining why. That letter tore me to pieces. Not because it destroyed my hopes for ever having her, but because every reason she listed was (to my eyes) nonsense.

She said I wasn’t artistic, I consider myself to be a great story crafter and a half-decent writer. She said she thought I’d be controlling and possessive, when I am nothing of the sort. She said I wasn’t ‘edgy’ enough, in so many words, even as I carved my flesh into ribbons. Even to this day, when she describes her perfect partner’s personality, she describes me to a T, or at least to a lower-case t.

I treat our bond as though we are siblings, and I believe that’s how she sees me, though I feel a much stronger love than that for her whilst single, and she feels nothing for me. She treats me like garbage. One time I begged her for company, knowing that if left alone I’d make an attempt on my life, and she said no. No one else came either, but I thought she of all people would understand and care. But she didn’t. And despite the handle of vodka, bottle of nyquil, assortment of pills, and sheer amount of blood loss I endured that night, I lived to suffer the pain of her betrayal.

With her it’s always apologies and broken promises. She’s sorry she abandoned me for the millionth time to be with her new abusive boyfriend, she promises it won’t happen again. She’s sorry she disappeared without a word of warning, and promises she’ll warn me in the future. She’s sorry that she broke her promises, she promises it won’t happen again.

And yet I love her. I’ve given her thousands of dollars. I’ve bought her over a hundred meals. I take care of her when everyone else abandoned her. I helped her get her shit together when agoraphobia had grabbed hold of her. I’ve given her everything I could possibly give, sacrificed everything she’s ever asked for or needed that I had.

But its never enough for her. It never will be. She will never care about me and my needs. I don’t need her romantic love, as much as I would enjoy it. But never once has she sacrificed for me. Never once has she gone out of her way to make me happy. She gave me a stack of ‘coupons’, to be redeemed for things such as ‘a guaranteed hang out session’ or ‘You can pick the music all day’. The one time I tried to redeem one, the first one I mentioned, she blew me off.

But of course, she moved to a whole other state for her drug addicted, physically and verbally abusive boyfriend. Then when she came back I took her back following a promise that she was completely done with him. I’m sure she will, or already has, broken that promise.

Despite all that, she is the most important person in my life. The thought of her killing herself makes me genuinely want to die too. Without her, there’d be absolutely no one in my life that I truly love. She is a fire amidst a barren tundra without which I’d freeze to death, even if she flickers in and out of existence that I’ve wished to  die in her absence.

My only other friend is Whitney. The strangest person I’ve ever known, and one of the most genuinely wholesome and good people you could ever have the pleasure of meeting. She’s sweet, kind, caring, generous, intelligent, and fun. She’s also asexual, so there’s no hope for romance there either. She lives a busy life, between college and work, so it’s rare I ever get to see her.

    Everyone else in my life is temporary, fleeting. They either abandon me purposely or drift away like clouds.

    My last girlfriend, the only other serious one I’ve had besides my ‘ex-fiancee’, abandoned me out of the blue. One moment, she was saying that she loved me and that I was her perfect man. The next, she provided a list of issues she had with me and said that they were irreconcilable. She left me with trust issues that have plagued every attempt at romance I’ve had since. I lost my virginity to that girl.

    And when we broke up, you know what happened? Her shit head best friend went and spread all of my personal information to our mutual friends, in a horrific way that painted me to be a violent and hurtful man who was ruining her life. And they believed him. Even though he was known to be an over-dramatic, hyper-aggressive piece of shit, they believed him. In spite of all the good things I’d done for them and absolutely no personal experience with me to back his words up, they took it as gospel. I had non-romantic commitment issues before then, but damned if they weren’t magnified ten fold after that.

    Every other romantic trist I had after her has had its issues. One time, whilst I was seeing a shrink and given pills that amplified my anxieties to levels beyond my control, I went full blown crazy with a girl. Demanded to know where she was, why she was ignoring me, sent over thirty texts in as many minutes. I quit that medicine the moment I ‘came down’.

    Another I ‘broke up’ with after we agreed that she couldn’t handle just hanging out in my car, and I can’t handle going to clubs. Another couple ghosted me. Another was even flakier than Kira, and far more blatant about it. Another just wasn’t that into me, even if he (an FtM transgender person) wouldn’t admit it.

    Right now, the biggest source of my anxiety is the fact that Kira has yet again disappeared. I’m used to that, but this time she explicitly said she would text me ‘soon’ when we hung out three days ago. The girl is a fucking suicidal drug addict, and doesn’t care about the pain it causes me when she disappears like this. The fears and anxieties that fill me hurt so bad you wouldn’t believe it. I’ve told her this countless times. She just, doesn’t, care.

    I want to punch something, tear my room apart. Its a disgusting mess now, but the mess is settled at least. A path to the door amidst the refuse, big piles pushed against the walls. It could be much, much worse. I feel like I’m about to explode, all these feelings bursting out of my fucking rib cage. But she doesn’t care about that. All she cares about is herself.

    There’s only two people in the entire world I’ve truly cared for, like really, wholly, undeniably loved and felt empathy for. My ‘ex-fiancee’, and Kira. But even for those I didn’t feel that way for, Whitney or my ex-girlfriend, I treat them right. Better than right. I buy them gifts, I look after them, I tell them I love them, I do my best to be the best friend or boyfriend I can be.

    I’m a heartless monster, but at least I have the manners to act better than that.

    You know something, I legitimately can’t remember the last time I cried. Probably when Kira and I first started becoming friends, she demanded I open up and tell her everything if I wanted her to do the same. So I did, and I broke down. Since then, not a drop. I just don’t have it in me. I’m tired. I’m tired of being alive, but outside of drunken and seemingly random spikes of suicidal ideations, I’m too scared of death to try and kill myself tonight.

    The thought of death, of everything just disappearing, terrifies me. It has since I was a little kid, we’re talking four or five years old. I don’t want to die, I never want to die. I want to live forever, or at least to know that there is reincarnation or an afterlife. I fear the ocean too, specifically being in the middle of the water with no land in sight and seeing a silhouette approaching me. But that’s not what my fear of death is. That’s a shock, a jump in my seat when I watch a video on youtube.

    My fear of death is primal, unadulterated terror. It keeps me up at night, it forces me to keep a light on when I want to sleep, it gave me a love for twilight hours as they brought an end to the darkness when I was a child. It brought me peace.

    Kira finally texted me back, simply saying ‘’I love you’. It could be her last words, it could be an apology for going back to her shit head ex, it’s definitely a lie to either herself or to me. It brought some measure of peace, though left a trail of underlying fears in its wake.

    I just wish I could be happy, but for that I need at least one of the three B’s. Booze, blood, or betrothal. The last B is hyperbolic, I don’t need that much of a commitment, just some sort of romantic connection with someone. Gotta keep the pattern going though. When I’m drunk, my troubles fade away. When I’m cutting, the pain distracts me. When I have a girlfriend, I feel accepted.

    Right now I have none of those things. I might cut my arm here in a bit, but I doubt I’ll be getting a girlfriend sometime tonight; and its too risky to be drinking on a night like this. So, I’ve just got to wallow in my own misery.

    I meant to write chapter two of a new book I’m working on tonight. It’s a dark, nautical comedy set in a fantasy-ish world about a dull yet narcissistic pirate captain and his misadventure to regain his fortune. I started writing it to keep myself busy while I wait to distance myself from the first book I wrote, a more serious piece. That one’s about a man and his new apprentice facing a rebellion of monsters who are supposed to coexist with humans, but are sick of their treatment as second class citizens.

    I need to distance myself from it because every time I look at it I want to delete the whole thing. It all feels too fresh, too personal. I can remember every keystroke that I put down, and since I was the one who typed it all, it must be trash. That’s how my mind sees it. I need to forget.

    I’ve just started episode five of Altered Carbon, haven’t paused it once, haven’t stopped writing except when they speak in another language or I don’t know what to wrtie next or when Kira texted me. I’m starving. By starving I mean I’m hungry, just enough that my stomach hurts. I’ll probably go grab more food like the fat ass, no-self-control shitstain that I am.

    I hate when people tell me I’m not fat, or when people say it shouldn’t matter. I am fat, and it matters to me. I don’t find fat people attractive. Never have, never will. I remember once, back when I was dieting and nearly at one-sixty, a (fat) girl said to me “Why are you still dieting? You look great.” I responded by lifting my shirt up (I didn’t have the scar on my stomach at the time) and jiggling it, which immediately elicited an ‘Ew!’ from her. I said, “That’s why.”

    It’s not a crime to be fat, nor do I treat fat people any worse than their skinny counterparts. I just think its extremely unattractive, just like me. I don’t want to be fat. I just don’t have the willpower to put a stop to it. And I hate myself for it. Maybe if/when I get a new job I’ll be able to get back into my routine. It’d be a lot easier if I lived on my own, and could choose the pantry and fridge’s contents myself.

    But for now I’m stuck living in my parents’ house. I thought once I bought a new car, I’d be able to save up and move out. Then I met Kira, and spent thousands on her. Then I allowed myself to be talked into going to therapy, a waste of time that I put a stop to after being told that I’d never be happy and to keep on cutting, that put me in debt to pay for. Then my car broke down, and I’ve had to open a new credit card for over nine-hundred dollars and spent another four-hundred up front, and her check engine light is already back on.

    Oh, and I don’t have a job anymore after getting fired for spending too much time helping coworkers, so its not like I can get a place with the two-hundred and twelve dollars I get a week with unemployment. I’ve dreamed about living on my own since before I was even a teenager. I’ve always hated my parents. Every time I think everything’s about to turn around fiscally, life comes around and shits down my fucking throat and cuts a hole through my trachea so it can fuck my feces-stained esophagus. Every, single, fucking, time.

    God that therapy was fucking worthless. I did what the guy said in regards to cutting. I tried rubber band snapping, icing, writing out my feelings. None of it had the same sense of distraction and gravitas. So, he told me if it helps and I’m being safe, keep doing it. So I have. I wanted to stop though, not for my own sake, but because the people who say they care about me (in other words, Whit) don’t like it and I can understand why. Again though, no will power.

    When it came to my moods, I told him about as much as I’ve told anyone in my life about myself. At first it felt good, he looked at me like some sort of specimen. By our last session though, it felt more like I was a chore to him, a frustrating waste of time. Although I didn’t bother to remember the words verbatim, he more or less told me that sometimes there just isn’t anything you can do to stop being miserable, and you’re just stuck that way. So, since that was the case, I stopped going.

    There was another professional I saw there, a woman who was there to actually prescribe medicines. After the first one ruined a budding and potentially great relationship, I was hesitant to try another. Given the fact that it was also expensive as fuck and I was constantly broke, with or without hesitation I couldn’t try another kind. She refused to prescribe me medicine for my ADD either, even though she did diagnose it. Said we needed to get the depression under control first. Maybe I’d be less fucking miserable if I could concentrate on one thing at a time instead of constantly having my attention diverted between two to three things every waking moment of my life.

    It’s funny, when I finished my first book, I thought I’d be happy. Filled with a sense of pride and accomplishment that would spur me forward in life. So I rushed it. The last couple chapters were far below my typical word count. Whitney pointed out that fact, and the fact that a lot of the earlier chapters were subpar comparatively, so I went back and finished it ‘for real’. I rewrote most of the earlier chapters, filled in the later chapters, got a real, proper first draft done. And still nothing.

    Now I’m telling myself that once I can edit it properly instead of just grimacing through the prologue I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe it. Maybe if an agent wants it, I’ll feel it, but I don’t believe that. If it were miraculously published, then, then I might feel a hint of genuine joy, but I don’t believe that. I keep pushing the goal posts of finding happiness further and further back to excuse my failure to do so.

    Fuck, I don’t even know why I wrote all this. I don’t feel any better. I feel like an overdramatic, self-important, delusional cunt. Same old same old I suppose.