It is 7pm on a Thursday, of January 2017. While other 23 year olds are in university studying, I have been waking up regularly at 5pm and occasionally holding sleep sessions from the hours of 5am to 11am and then at 2pm to 8pm. My Bumble ‘friends’ ask me to hang out and I say I am too stressed since another one of those requests will reappear in the next 2 hours anyway.
Most mornings are woken up in terrors, I do not sleep in my bed in fear of the monsters that come out at night and the recurring bodily experiences of all the disasters that happened in the sunrise and sunset hours of my childhood and adolescence. They say the bed is made for comfort—they lie. It is a place where you are only vulnerable to attack. Your body lying horizontally, parallel to the earth. The perpetrators they are vertical, like the skyscrapers, what some feminists call the penis structures, the dick monuments. Dicks, the way they way they squirt and spill and spit their poisons onto your face in the bathtub in the sink on your clothes or not at all because they do not want their girlfriends to know where they have been.
I might spill this on the internet, maybe show a glimpse of my loss of control on Facebook, Instagram, what have you. Then I will get people messaging me telling me that they care about me and they are worried about me after they tell me they have consumed seven beer cans that day and also cannot sleep and spend the majority of their time on their asses in front of the computer eating potato chips and pizza, scrolling past my post of my bowl of black beans and rice, avocados, and vegan cake and my beautiful naked pictures in a hot bath with flowers and candles with the snake oil scent I picked up from my local herb shop dripping on the wet towel I put over my face to mask myself in all its sensual pleasure.
I remember him like petals brushing up against solid iron blacks. Physicalities of daily life. This kitchen table, these chairs–where they are all so sturdy enough to hold my body weight–Simone Weil quotes, when I was resistant to let them in before, now are frequently making their way into my streams of consciousness, and I go to The Cross Suffices on academia.edu or just pull it up from my folder that reads his name to view the writing that I had trouble understanding one year ago but now I understand wholeheartedly, the way Paglia still sinks in to me after the same year. Titles that changed my life were is forté, convincing me of the necessity of our bold masculinity and femininity and encouraging me to fight him when he made playful shoves at my past inflexible serious considerations of life. The gateway thinker to the Humes and Schopenhauer heroes that I realize now are much better than these internet secularists who claim to reason while naively displaying their inaccurate assessment of their ignorance.
I have trouble now seeking connections of the same level, and I do not know how he does it, to remain alone and happy to shut off his interaction with everyone. Oh wait, I think I do know. He merely says, “I hate everyone. They are all stupid.” and leaves it at that.
I think I appreciate it. Knowing that it is okay to hate others. I think it would be best for me to hate them, too. But I cannot. I somehow like to believe others in my circle are into doing good. Some, maybe not all. I am not so naive to the fact some men just want me for sex (and I for them, too), but they do call me smart and interesting so I appreciate that as I send them partial nudes online because I love my naked body enough to photograph it and put those same pictures on my bathroom walls.
I say everything I do is intentional, but maybe not consciously so. I only figure this out after the patterns that have been witnessing to me and now have come to the conclusion that my body has more wisdom than I, and so I am to write the theory to name such phenomenon to be probably secretly published in academia where it will sit quietly for no one to understand or recognize because that is the way it is with my status as a 23 year old college drop out aka no degree no status no fame no prestige just a brilliant genius who does not care to climb the hierarchal ranks of the modern dying ivory tower.
I have been yelling at people lately and yell at them even more when I am on some type of drug which the counselors keep saying is a symptom of PTSD but I like to think it is just my accurate perception of all the hypocritical atrocity that has plagued even yes the mental health professionals to these stupid Friends connected by a hyperlink on my NewsFeed.
I have this cat now, and he is really annoying. He meows incessantly into the night and I frequently want to hit him but I do not, I hold him until he shuts up, the way I wanted to be when I was young, the way I would only give to a man that I care about since there is no other man deserving of such TLC perfection.
I have not been doing my mindful eating, where I sit quietly with my food and appreciate its existence and the farmers and people that brought it here to me, including myself. But who does that really these days, anyone? I am the mother fucking leader of all industries yet people do not know it and are waiting for the final product to come before making their decision instead of recognizing it from the start and encouraging it to come the way preventive and genius curation should occur.
What is this concept, “For only my eyes to see” that they speak of in writing courses and therapy sessions to a girl who had her greatest suffering witnessed right before all of their eyes, so public like an honor killing, only it was her soul and not her body, they wanted to preserve the body for them to use including her brain. Because she was so smart, so smart, and now she is coming back.
and ready to murder all of those who stood in my way.
Copyright © 2017