No Longer Myself

One year sense 2016 has gone by. Across the street a welder will get kicked out by his girlfriend. That's one welder groveling on the floor of road. I had never known anyone that cheated with anyone directly.

I wonder how one could live on merely two hundred dollars. The thing about living on year own in these parts, you have a crazy high rent. A thing the card won't even pay for that. So you have this homeless guy able to buy groceries but no place to cook them. I suppose one could survive on fast food, I never checked to verify that. So this guy is kicked out by his girlfriend, who is complaining about the INTERNET.

We've been without a good reliable connection for a few months. I almost was under the impression that most other people than myself and my room mate were already used to the connection as bad it is. You have to be outside to get it, so you can go looking for girls in pillories or guillotines outside the door. Just as well, there are way to many cops around here. Might as well be bought off the manager. They would drive around the small neighborhood road, profiling people. That was the good aspect about this place.

The church food bus almost never comes here. Room mate hasn't given up on it already, but I began to assume it was a lost cause.

Room mate still hasn't given up on them.

I'm not sure why we took so long to avoid getting food stamps.

We avoided it for three whole months when we needed it most. It's because spending all your money is fucking stupid. Actually rather than stupid, it's just a matter of being poor. On one hand you consume nicotine to help relief your stress about reality, on the other hand you continue to lose money ignoring the need for food stamps. A vicious cycle indeed.

The only thing making our situation worth living is at least we have a place to cook--marginally. The fire alarm is wild and crazy. I've never had a smoke alarm so sensitive that it activates while you're boiling water. The only cheap drug is the "porn pill". But the thing about porn pills is how they gradually reduce your grip on reality. But each pill would allow sexual fantasies based on the individual person who took them.

So for me I would go to sleep, as they have relaxation powder in them, and dream of images of guillotined girls and women in pillories. Sometimes schoolgirls getting their bottoms paddled. Just whatever gives me my kick at any particular moment. Yea I like girls in nice kicks, carve them out of a piece of whole wood. I don't understand why there are high heeled versions. Makes for crouch stomping an unpleasant experience. If you're into that sort of that.

I'm not sure what my room mate dig when they take their porn pill. Combined with a an acid problem and sleep issues and a dose of PTSD, it makes dreams especially short and realistic in nature. Like someone unwilling to look to far in the past. Sometimes they are so realistic that they make one wonder whether they actually happened at some point in the past. You have a a pad of notebook paper you looked forward to writing on, and suddenly this stack of notebook paper is thrown away by narcissism.

Maybe I should get off porn pills.

My mind feels fuzzy.

The thing about porn is the best porn depends on the individual. Some take it by the mouth, others go for the lunge. Isn't weird how sometimes you find weird names from drugs, especially this one called the "porn pill".

It was the first time I used the pill, although others of my friends had varying experiences based on their natural orientation and gender dynamic. For me, I was still finding myself and it took a while to finally settle on various the sexualized grotesque channels. I could watch girls having their heads popped off all day without a thought in the world for societies mores. The porn pill allowed us to hallucinate while we slept, and experience realistic dreams of various objects of desire we desired, including some tendencies toward bondage in the extreme, of which I was only ever a light participant in any of those.

The first few times it was a weird experience. I had only just started using Nicotine and THC vape, and most dreams tended to be fantastic in nature combined with the already present stomach acid issues and sleep issues I already had that gave me night terrors. But these dreams were different, for one I felt that I existed in a different time line apart from our own. Time could go backward or forward, and loop forever and ever until I was left repeating the same household chores again. But instead of chores, I was visited by various angels with multiple colored hair. I picked the ones that were of my choosing, and finally decided to behead the girl with the lightly greenish brunette shade of colors. I gave her various methods of foreplay, including circling around her nipples and gently caressing her neck.

When I was done I tied her to a guillotine plank, and then slowly lowered her into the neck clasp, then closed the top. I could feel her becoming more tense as time went on as I refused to let her die. I would lowered the blade, severing her neck from her spine. I found her face rather divine. Then when she was counting on being freed, I lowered the blade. The blade dropped, cut through her neck, and then she urinated on the plank. Her body convulsed as blood filled the basket.

It was all over for the greenish haired brunette.

But the thing about hallucination pills, they take some part of you away. Whatever grasp you had on normal human relationships would melt away. You would wander endlessly in the night looking for pubs to grab a beer or two, and watch pretty ladies with wonderful shoes. A slow ragtime metal band played on the radio, music not much better than the tunes at the social event in more southern districts revolving around the circling of the lasso and the bull.

Nothing would take away the desire for the pills.

As the pills of porn became my life. I courted temporary dates, and arranged marriages for friends. I will soon yet have other marriages, and yet at some point I wish to settle down for a new life. So I bought myself some cigarillos, bought about ten packs and a half. Smoked them all at once hoping not become sick in the process. And then combined it with the THC ecig and the porn pill hoping nothing much would change from the last experience.

But then I found the ladies surround.

Now I'm on the chopping block, I suppose that's why it's called the suicide porn pill. Something different for a change.

I wake up with a sore throat.

It is the year 2086. You know how it is when you have a misunderstanding, it's usually harmless. But sometimes it has lethal consequences. Some misunderstandings cause ultimate and final decisions. But I've never been one for Shakespeare.

I've never been one for academic literary study. Between different authors, the story more often than not is only written to entertain a buddy. How one may define buddy depends on which author you speak to. Each writer has their own story they need to tell to that special someone, whether that's a niece or nephew, aunt or uncle, wife, or kids. But for me I've never been one to share stories with anyone. When I define anyone for myself, anyone for me to want to share stories with, I define them as anyone who I create in a story. Stories are comfortable, and yet sometimes the best stories speak of discomfort.

Discomfort need not be overt, it can simply be in your mind. But the way I grew up, everything was apparently in my mind.

So let's go back in time, and do a rewind.

I was a runner in high school, but not on the track team; never being a team player, it made it difficult to really move forward in friendships. My life was a movie with a good bad quality, although it might be entertaining to others, it was simply my life. They would compare me to one movie guy, but also another current TV guy. So a lot of my high school years were spent fluctuating between different nick names depending on who you spoke to. To tell you the truth, the only thing I would have done differently is try to off to myself sooner. And yet at the time there was something that always kept holding me back, and it wasn't until recently I even built up the strength to kill myself. Pressure anyone long enough, and they'll eventually blow their brains out. It's a sure thing. But at the time I would simply rest all of the time in bed. You can't really tell someone to read more if they are in bed sleeping all of the time. The years spent running from class to class eventually took their toll. I would run out of frustration, the rational thought being that I would rather be injured than deal with whatever asshole was right beside me at any particular moment.

It wasn't as if I didn't have a social life, I had one to a fault. The few friends I had were a special breed of toxin. Merely friends because society didn't want them, our leader joined us together to try to keep order among the malcontents. But what to be malcontented about you may ask, well my life was basically taken care of. I would take my problems away, and shove them into a drawer deep into the hole as to never be found again. The thing was, you got to be willing to push problems aside, so they say. After all why address them so they can keep piling up and boiling just under the surface. When I was less broken, I once pushed my mom into the wall. Well was that all? You bet, it took all my will out of me. Among other factors.

The thing about writing stories, some may call it a coping mechanism. I call it a matter of life or death. There are some feelings I have about people due to the nature of my skepticism and cynicism that make me incompatible with any particular group. The thing about attempted suicide, surviving the first one changes you in specific ways; the difference is subtle, difficult to articulate how. But by the second attempt, it stops affecting you as much. The only feeling you are left with is why you were not successful.

One might try to plan their suicide, believe me I've planned them many times. You can't really be sure if your plans will go through; there would always be someone who would suddenly walk in the room and peek over your shoulder. I always hated it when people peeked over my shoulder. I wanted to crush their heads with a boulder. Remove the entire weight from their shoulders. And yet there would nobody behind me.

Yet there is somebody behind me right now, I can feel it.

They take me by the hand, and direct me to the under side of life.

And yet I am merely in the bathroom stall. I feel sleepy and extremely tired. One of my fingers becomes cut. I liked the feeling of cutting myself, and drowning in alcohol to wash the tears away. To wash everything away, watch it melt before me eyes hoping I go blind from the darkness. I write in poetry only relevant to me alone.

I who exist alone, with nobody else.

Here I live among the damned.

Here I live among the dead, who live in confined sheds. Who am I, I ask myself. Who am I is who I am. I am my own personal burden, I exist only for others. I exist in the night. For the tonight is the night I dine among the dead, becoming a special outcast among them. My own dream to no longer exist is coming true. Little by little I start to becoming nothing, I stop feeling. I stop experiencing, the remaining experiences a kind of questionable sexual pleasure amongst other kin. Because life is only a myth, it is defined by who you are with at any particular moment. For moments are my own, and nobody else's. And I was never able to define my own existence.

My last experience is a moment of pleasure, the final caress of non-existent corpses. A bride only to myself.

I only have myself, with no vision.

I am blind.

But something is different, I can feel it in my bones of the dead.

I wake up, and find myself in a room. It is the roomiest room I've ever been in, the same room as I was in before.

It is ... the bathroom.

I can feel my phone beside me.

I a still alive, I have vision.

But I'm no longer myself.

No longer myself.

Longer myself.

Myself.

Self.

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