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Fuck
it. I don’t care about being sued. As my dad says, “You can’t
squeeze blood out of a turnip.” And I don’t care about going to
prison, if that’s a thing, so I’m just going to write without
censoring myself. I don’t know why I have the urge to do this.
Maybe it’s because I want people to like me. It would be
interesting to see who would after reading this.
I’ve
been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. I have several
single-nucleotide polymorphisms for schizophrenia predisposition
according to my DNA test, so my thoughts tend to be pretty
disorganized to other people, although they follow fairly logical
routes in my own mind. Unfortunately no one that I know (in human
form, at least) can read my thoughts. I don’t know if I should
write this in the style of how I think or in the style that society
or language or whatever has conditioned us to appreciate. I think
I’ll try the former.
Ahem.
I was born April 20, 1982 at a hospital in Warner Robins, Georgia. I
share the same birthday as Hitler and the day before Queen
Elizabeth’s, even though she celebrates her birthday later in the
year for some stupid reason. According to western astrology, it’s
considered the Cusp of Power. But, of course, there is a good chance
that astrology is either bullshit or a phenomenon that manifests
itself due to mass belief. I don’t know the word, and I’m going
to attempt to write this without Googling things. According to the
Book of Revelation (or the Hallucinations of John, as I like to think
of it when I’m in certain moods), people won’t be able to buy or
sell without the mark of the beast of its name or its number. The
mark is in their right hand or between their eyes. In Hebrew, the
number six is the letter vav, which becomes the letter W in English,
hence WWW=666. In that case, most people—at least in this
country—already have the mark in their hand (smartphones), and I’m
not sure if it’s popular anymore, but augmented reality devices
like Google Glass were at least a thing at one point. Also John
claims that a “star” called Wormwood will fall from heaven and
poison a third of the waters. It’s interesting that the word
Chernobyl can be translated to the Greek word that was translated to
Wormwood. Point being, I’m making an excuse for being too stubborn
to Google, mainly.
So
I have a feeling if you’re the kind of person who is opposed to the
possibility that there may be some truth in Biblical prophecy, you’re
probably getting annoyed by now. So I’ll change the subject for a
little while, at least.
I
have so much to say and can’t decide where to begin. I’ve always
had a difficulty with choosing, and most of the things I do are on
spontaneous whims. Anyway, back to the day I was born. I was born two
days after Jacob Polsky, who I considered my best and only friend
until high school. I would spend the night at his house, and we’d
play video games and jump on the trampoline—normal stuff. One time
we went with our dads to the mountains and stayed in a relatively
swanky cabin. I’m not sure what the year was, but I do remember
there being a National Geographic magazine in the bathroom with a
close-up picture of a woman eating a piece of sushi with black
varnished chopsticks, if you want to look it up. The magazine
could’ve been old, though.
I
do remember it was around the time I started growing pubic hair,
because Jacob had made me take off all my clothes and run around the
cabin naked for some reason. He liked dominating me, I guess. Then
later that night, when he was asleep on the couch, I tried to peek
inside his boxers because I was curious. I don’t know if he knew
what I had done, but shortly after that he stopped having anything to
do with me. That’s when people started calling me queer. Actually,
that must have been after fifth grade, because my best friend Randall
who was murdered started going to school here then, and apparently I
tripped him and called him a queer, but I don’t remember. I don’t
doubt it, though. I remember going on the LGBT message boards on AOL
and telling everyone they were going to Hell. But secretly I knew I
liked boys. I always wanted to be a girl, too. I remember my mom
would let me put on her makeup and jewelry when my dad wasn’t home.
And I remember once I was spending the night with Jacob, and he
wanted to pretend that our pillows were Madonna and we were making
out with her (this was around the time she had the pointy bra), and
while we were doing it, I was pretending that the pillow was him. I
also remember finding my dad’s Playboy under their dresser and
jacking off to a picture of Dennis Rodman with his junk covered by a
basketball. Good times, I guess.
On
the other hand, I remember being “in love” with Traci Nobles. Her
mom and my mom were best friends, and we used to vacation at Cher and
Greg Allman’s old house in Hilton Head. I have vague memories of
writing her name on my wall, and I have pictures of her and me then.
I looked so happy. I must have been pretty young, because my hair was
still pretty red. I miss Traci. We hadn’t talked in years, but then
we met up a couple times in Augusta. She sent me a naked picture of
Anthony Weiner. They had been talking. About a year later, the
scandal happened, and I guess it affected her pretty negatively. I
remember talking to her before she went on The Today Show or some
bullshit, freaking out because she didn’t know what to say. I can’t
remember what I told her, but I was proud of how she handled the
interview, even though they were obviously trying to spin it and
force her into some kind of victimized female role. She said, “It
is what it is.” What a simple but therapeutic statement.
Later
on, for some reason people like Karl Lagerfeld wanted to befriend
her. And Hugh Hefner wanted her to be in Playboy. I don’t remember
if it was him or someone else that tried to get her to write a memoir
about the event, which I thought was ridiculous so I told her she
shouldn’t do it. She asked me if I would leak something to the New
York Post about what happened, but my mom told me not to. I never
found out what it was.
Fuck,
I have too many memories that may be of historical import or have
some sort of entertainment value, but it’s difficult to decide what
to write about. And I’m afraid if I actually do write in
train-of-thought, no one will be able to understand what the fuck is
going on.
My
grandma’s vagina. That’s a thought. I loved my grandma. She was
my favorite person in the world. I used to hop over the fence and run
across the field to her house almost every day—especially when my
parents were being mean. She used to sing while she was cooking.
Salmon patties, rice, and English peas. That was one of her suppers.
I hate English peas. But the biscuits. Oh my god, so good. Sometimes
we’d have them for dessert with butter and syrup. Memories of lying
on her bosom (strange word) watching the Golden Girls. I remember her
wearing a dark blue mu mu with light blue trimming. I think I have a
picture of her in that somewhere. And rubbing her feet. And sleeping
with her. All good memories.
But
then one day when we were going to church, she put on two different
kinds of shoes. And she drove her car into the ditch. That was around
the time she found out she had brain cancer. We stopped going to
church around the time her hair started falling out. She got a wig,
and it looked pretty nice. But eventually she wasn’t my grandma
anymore. She was this...thing...like something from a horror movie.
Shriveled and speechless. I went to see her on her hospital bed in
her bedroom, and she was trying to drink through a straw, and there
were food particles all in it. And she had her hand down her pants,
and I could see her pubic hair. That memory just won’t go away. I
hate it. I hate it. I miss her so much. I don’t want to think of
all this fucked up shit, but I do. I still have my Snuggles, though.
She gave him to me in 1986. She died in 1993. Everything went
downhill from there. Now I’m crying.
Okay,
I went outside and had a cigarette. I feel better. The frogs and
cicadas and crickets, I guess, are making all kinds of music. I may
have had a few signs from the universe or Time or God or whatever
being controls synchronicities—or interprets random events as
synchronicites, like my fucked up brain—that I should quit smoking,
but I still haven’t. I don’t know if it’s because I’m so
addicted or because it’s a protest to whomever’s in charge. The
first sign I remember was when I was obsessing over the Mosaic law. I
had a strong feeling that the rule about passing your seed through
the fire to Moloch had something to do with me. I asked my mom about
it—if she knew something about it. I’m pretty sure we got into a
heated argument, which usually happens when we discuss anything
religious.
I
remember thinking about the time I flipped my 1994 Buick LeSabre with
Lilly, Hal, and Colleen on a dirt road when Colleen told me to speed
up. Bon Jovi was playing on the tape when we landed, and I’m still
a little superstitious about listening to him while I’m in a car. I
thought we had died, even though we didn’t have any scratches
(except for Colleen, who had glass from the windshield in her that
she was picking out for years). We walked to some lady’s trailer,
and she gave us some water. I had so much dirt in my mouth. I called
my parents, and my dad seemed ready to kick my ass, but fortunately
the cops came in time to diffuse the situation.
I
told my parents and the cops that I swerved to avoid hitting a cat.
They took us to the hospital, and my mom gave me a Benson &
Hedges cigarette. She had a pack in her purse. She denies it to this
day, but I am extremely confident that it happened. She claims she
never smoked, but I’m thinking maybe she had a pack from when she
was hanging out with Ms. Vicky, Traci’s mom, who smoked, and she
just doesn’t remember—either that, or it’s part of some
ridiculous conspiracy. Anyway, shortly after that I had the feeling
about Moloch and cigarettes, I went to Dollar General, and as I was
sitting in my car smoking, this guy comes up to me and asks me for a
cigarette and then tells me his name is Moloch. What the fuck?
So
my mom told me I could write a book, but I couldn’t talk about my
family for some reason. But I don’t want to censor myself, so I
hope she never reads this, or if she does, I hope she’ll forgive
me. One time she called the cops on me because she found an old
LiveJournal entry of mine where I said I wished she would try to kill
herself again so she would get help. Actually I think I may have
probably said something about wishing she would die, too. But the
cops didn’t do anything. I don’t want my mom to die currently,
but sometimes I do. Sometimes I want the whole world to explode.
Sometimes I just want to die of a heroin overdose—or I did, at
least, until Sean, this neat punk guy I was screwing and cuddling in
Pennsylvania told me it was as bad as drowning.
And
sometimes I question whether or not she’s my real mom. I do have
fond memories of her rocking me in the recliner until my legs were
hanging off. I wish I were a baby again so she could just hold me.
She did let me lay my head in her lap last year before the cops came
to pick me up and take me to a psych ward. She made me a grilled
cheese sandwich, too, and the cops were going to let me finish it
before they took me, but I couldn’t eat it. I miss my mommy when
she was my mommy.
Ok,
I guess I need to explain why sometimes I have questioned whether or
not she’s my real mother. But meanwhile, it’s five minutes til
four a.m., and I think I’m going to stop typing for tonight. Since
I have no idea how to organize this, I’ll just call this chapter
“Day One”. I’m eating a delicious white chocolate and macadamia
nut cookie, even though one of my many broken teeth hurt. I’m
considering waking my mom up to get a Neurontin, but I don’t want
her to get mad, and maybe I can sleep without it. You know, I have
online journals going back til 2001, although the newest one is set
to private because I’ve become a shittie person, I guess, and I
didn’t necessarily want the world to know. In most of the entries
I’m venting about some bullshit. So that’s why I’m writing
this. I mean, there’s still a lot of bullshit, probably, depending
on your perspective. But it’s the Truth to me. Interestingly, the
Roman goddess of truth was depicted holding a mirror. I’m not
entirely sure about reality, and maybe you will understand why if you
keep reading, assuming that there will be someone other than me at
some point in spacetime that actually reads this.
Okay,
damnit, It’s 5 a.m. I was lying in bed and thinking about how my
cousin told me that David’s sin was pride after I told her that I
thought I may be his reincarnation. I feel like I have too much
pride, but I don’t know what to do about it. I feel like a piece of
shit most of the time. Am I proud about that? I don’t understand
it. But a while back I looked up Veritas on Wikipedia because when I
was a kid I started a newsletter called Veritas (never actually wrote
anything—just the title). There was a picture of the Roman goddess
of truth, and I swear she was holding a mirror. But just now, I
looked up pride, and it has a picture of the personification of Pride
holding a mirror. I just want to stop existing. This reality is so
fucking twisted. Or maybe it’s just me. I don’t really know.
I
took a shower and feel a little bit better. I guess I just have to
accept that for whatever reason I am a terrible person. I got a bowl
of Lays potato chips. I like the saltiness, even though they hurt my
mouth. My mom’s cousin Jim grew potatoes on his farm, and
apparently due to copyright or trademark or whatever it’s called
when you genetically engineer shit, he has to destroy all the ones
they don’t buy. Jim had a brother who died in the 90s from AIDS. I
only remember him coming to my grandma’s once for some holiday, I
guess. He was with a girl who now, looking back, seemed very much
like a butch lesbian. I wonder what he was like.
Well,
I’m down to my last cigarette, and I’m still not sleepy. My tooth
is hurting. It’s annoying, although I’m pretty used to it at this
point. Oh, I had this crazy hypothesis once that lying causes your
teeth to deteriorate, hence the saying “lying through your teeth”.
It made sense, since George Washington is famous for his false teeth
and how he supposedly “cannot tell a lie”. Well, that’s
obviously bullshit, because anyone can tell a lie. I’m honestly
trying not to, though, in this book, at least. I mean, of course I’ve
told countless lies in my life. I wonder if there are some things
that I lied about so much that now I believe are true. If you tell
what you think is the truth but it’s actually false, is that still
considered a lie? I don’t know. I bet there’s some Greco-Roman
god for that, though.
Speaking
of gods, I should probably explain the whole King David thing. Maybe
I’ll save that for Day Two. That story also encompasses the reason
I thought my mother wasn’t my real mother, so two birds, one stone.
Fuck, I don’t like that saying. I don’t like killing birds, even
though it kind of makes me a hypocrite because I eat chicken. But I
don’t want to kill one. And I have a problem eating things I’ve
seen alive before—or even if I’ve seen their relatives, like the
time I lived on a cattle ranch on a reservation in South Dakota. Also
I’ve wondered if the fact that I refused to pull the trigger to
finish off the quail that my dad shot in the field when I was a kid
is the reason that I’m gay. Thanks, St. Paul.
Okay,
I’m going to force myself to stop typing for tonight. I’m almost
at 3,000 words, which The Blessed Google says is the appropriate
amount for a chapter. So there.
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