( I have decided to add some notes to the more disturbing entries. This one here being a prime example of such. It is the very first one, and what this should tell you is that I needed an outlet badly, and immediately. This entry, and any subsequent ones in this vein are primary examples of very deep, and very long lasting pain. Age has afforded me enough wisdom to know that I am way too much of a self-absorbed attention whore to ever purposefully pull it. The genesis of my blogging is right here, and not a moment too soon )
September 28, 2005.
being careful not to chip an already chipped tooth, I carefully inserted the cold barrel into my mouth, truly these things are quite heavy, television gives the illusion that somehow it is easy to handle steel, but in truth, it is awkward, and it makes one feel sillier by the moment. not helping is the continous need to swallow the spit that constantly threatens to spill down your chin, readjust, careful to keep your thumb away from the trigger, lest you be taken by surprise, and spoil your ultimate moment.
the song plays softly in the background, ‘let the good times roll, oh, wont you let the good times roll’ and you wonder why you didn’t listen to the cars more often, it tastes terrible, and for a moment you worry about about germs, then laugh the laughter of the mad as you realize the ridiculous irony of such a concern. suddenly the laughter becomes hot tears, and you wonder if the high emotion has somehow aided in raising the temperature of the salty fluid dripping down your face,
and in that instant, you place it softly on the floor, press the clip release, and cock the chamber to remove the last explosive pill. unbidden, you recall the sharp pain, and shower of fireworks behind your eyes, then the numbness of an irresistable sleep, consciousness fading and the feeling of trying to hold it as one might try to hang on to a greased cliffside, you then remember, that was your dream, and without having felt it waking, you know that is what it will be like, unable to fullfill your own promise, you despair, only to find that you cannot run forever, it is one, or it is the other, and instead, you choose the other, and here you are.
half-heartedly, you seek to rebuild, and you find yourself sweating profusely, and often, and you wonder why your narrative keeps shifting perspectives, and you understand, as you always have, that there are two of you, and you wonder how to eliminate the stubborn one.
My sane self wishes that were fiction.