If Only It Hurt To Be An Asshole.

So…I am plagued right now by several people in my life who seem to think that I am an idiot. I may not always say things in the moment, when someone is attempting to play me like a slot machine, I may not always even realize it at that point in time, but I will realize it. Trust that much. I can’t stand it when people are unable to own their own bullshit in life; much less when said people insist on trying to shift any blame or responsibility over such bullshit onto others when they get called on it.

I have my own bullshit and my own problems. I have my own issues to work on without other people constantly trying to force feed me the workload of their bullshit as well. People just don’t seem to comprehend how fucking stupid they look when they do this, as if I can’t do the math and see what they are doing, or trying to do. Do other people not see how low that takes them by behaving like a 2 year old? Do other people actually think that these pathetic and constant attempts at deflecting the TRUTH will somehow carry them through life? Without losing everyone who might have really cared about them?

It would just be really nice if other people could own their shit, even once in a while. It’s really old being mostly surrounded by people who always want to shift blame and try to make me accountable for shit that has NOTHING to do with me. If only it hurt to be an asshole, maybe people would find a way to check themselves.

Scrap.

This scrap that you’re reading here

Happens to be my first for the year

Within its lines I hope to convey

Sentiment lost from day to day

In warm recognition of a few humans beings

that helped me survive the year twenty-fifteen

A few handfuls of due notability

Posted here for the whole world to read

Those of you who may not be aware

How it helps to know of another out there

When the lights have gone out in this head of mine

I’ve been lit back up again by a “stranger” online

And, for the year that I’m happy to see fade away

A few things remain of importance to say

So this one’s from the cuff for my cyber-family

to celebrate such a vast array of what’s humanity

a nation assembled from far and wide

that draws strength as a collective tribe

sometimes when the darkness comes

such a trivial thing as a notification

can seemingly bring my attention around

to the Fact of Life that is as old as sound

even when experience tends to isolate me

and keep me alienated and in long solitary

its striking that I would eventually find

everything opposite of what I kept in mind

and have seen unfathomable depths to things

experienced through these human beings

Strokes.

People really trip me out…
Sometimes they act in ways that are means of subconscious
desire to be stroked, we all know that.
It’s when the strokes don’t come, though, that we get to experience the rest of that noise.

image

The Differences Between us

Americana Injustica

enemy

 

 

I once believed in my fellow human being – the same kind of human being as the kind that I am:  a creature that is fully capable and often willing to lay importance at the feet of anything outside of itself, genuine in the spirits of kindness and empathy. I used to have faith of embarrassing depths in the notion that most, if not all, other people I knew were hardwired to perceive something as seemingly innate as the consideration of needs belonging to those besides ourselves. I have learned in the hardest of ways, however, that the vast majority of so-called humans, are in stark contrast to the type of human being that I remain. When I use the word “remain” to describe the way I feel about the obvious differences between me and 9 out of 10 people that I know, it’s meant to…

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Hindsight

Image“So, I, uh…found your blog yesterday…” his voice trails off at the lack of my response. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?” my irritation must be palpable to him then;

He physically withdrawals before saying, “Tell me….uh, tell me how you feel, all that stuff about m-“

I cut him off before he can finish the final word of the sentence; highly distracted by my own thoughts on a subject having nothing to do with his sorry ass, I say without even looking in his direction, “What the fuck makes you think it’s about you?…Damn get over yourself, already.”

Of course, it was about him; and he knows this – because he knows what we’ve gone through and there’s no mistaking the details I written.

He makes an all-too-familiar face that looks like he just swallowed an entire peeled lemon with holes in it; and starts to shake his fat head at me in his typical, condescending way: his way of telling me that he’s smarter than me, and that I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“Whatever, that was then – when I wrote that…”

He breaks in with a matter-of-fact voice and says, “’Then’ was only like a month and a half ago, you know?”

“Oh look who can suddenly count days!” I cannot help myself; I’m fucking childish that way.

 

He waits…patiently, in one of his stuck-up, patriarchal poses that I’m sure he practices in the mirror during moments alone. I am uncomfortable; I do not want him here, nor do I want to discuss these meaningless things with him – I do not want to even know him anymore, wish I never had.

“Who fucking cares?” I stand from the step on the front porch, where I had hesitantly taken my seat moments before, my face is feeling hot and my blood pressure rises like a tidal wave in my veins; I say,

“There’s not a God damned thing in that blog that I didn’t tell you…I told you that shit more than once, as a matter of fact. YOU decided that those things were invalid to YOU, in case you conveniently don’t recall that part of things…”

He shoots a hand up from where he sits to grab my arm as I spin by him towards my front door; his face is pleading, as if he he’s lost or out of gasoline.

“DON’T touch me.” I am not afraid of this fat head; in fact, I am quite certain that despite his extraordinary mass in size and height, I could take him easily – because he is a total fucking pussy. But his touch makes me recoil and think of dark things and bad places – metaphoric of my disgust with myself for ever believing his eloquently constructed, pseudo-village of lies.

ImageI snap my hand away from his, and go inside – hammering the door closed behind me with a loud crack!

His muffled voice expels what I make out as various obscenities through the solid door as he shuffles down the porch and away from me; thank you Gods…thank you. What a varmint…must be nice on the planet he lives on.