I'm always sad

but it makes me sadder seeing you do cute things with other girls than turn around and tell me were in a rut. I hate to be sensitive. I hate that I feel like I'm doing it anyway. I hate that I can't be away from you for to many days at a time without a terrible ache for you. I hate that I sat in my room crying this morning, not because I can't figure out how to pay for college and I'm looking at the doom of getting stuck here, but because some stupid boy. It makes me sad that I'd rather see you cheat on me than just hang out with other girls because, sex, i do understand, but damn I do not understand friendship, I guess. I don't understand that 6 am is not to early to get up to get breakfast with a friend but when I texted you later that night saying I was horny, you were too fucking tired. It makes me sad that sometimes I feel like your other woman, some dirty little secret. It makes me sad that I'm writing this instead of telling you because I don't want to talk to you about it because I don't think you should have to stop being friends with people or feel like I'm ungrateful for all the time you spend listening to me be sad and helpless and trying to help me anyway. It makes me sad that I feel like I need you way more than you need me. It makes me the most sad that I'm actually sad about all this. In any other relationship, we would have been fucking done the moment you said you're friends think I'm slutty and you still want to be friends with some bitch who talks about me behind my back.

the art of manliness

Want to read another one of my creative writing pieces?

Blows to the face.

Nose cracks.

Stinging palms and cracking knuckles.

 Jabbing at a body.

Ribs cracking.

Air punched right out of the lungs.

Eyes droop.

Pursed lips slide down  toward the chin weighing the face down till the eyes can only focus on the spinning floor.

 Blood.

The crowd sees it drip with gratitude.  They scream, their faces covered with shadows, under the pointless lights.

My body is coated in a layer of dirt, soaking up the sweat that I drip with after every match.

I need to shower but I feel low and embarrassed. I’m sick of these grimy faces. I need to leave.

I am bruised and I am hungry. 

Under my broad shoulders and square jaw, I am small, looking up at the crystal tops of buildings. No matter how much I puff out my chest, flex my muscles, beat against blocks and blocks of hard flesh, I always end up in the dirt. My shoulders are falling and my legs ache. The arch of my foot screams with every step and I feel a small painful quake in my calf.

I prowl past restaurants and bakeries, which had closed hours ago. My stomach growled, yearning for some kind of substance. I find nothing to fill it.

I’ve wondered to the edge of the city, where the black masses reaching for the sky melt into dimly lit houses with pickets fences and grocery lists and minivans and ritual kisses before setting off for work, most days at least, and retirement plans to sit and wait to find yourself back in the dirt. I am still not home.

My knees give in front of some less quaint yard. The grass looks rough, patchy. It looks dry and long, especially next to the near by well manicured yards surrounding. It must have rained earlier. The dirt was damp below me as i fell. It felt nice, cool water pressing through my tee shirt.

I laid there, finding no strength to get me up, to move another block of flesh. I lie there under the dark sky. Tonight the moon hides and took the stars with him. I face the emptiness, stare into it. I'm looking for something, but I see nothing.

I think back to the fight. My desire to see blood, to see another man fall, to deliver some fatal blow to him, to beat him until he would never get up again, knowing even if I win I will have to do it again. Next time I face a man we will have to stand with our raised fists.

“Excuse me Sir! Sir!”

I open my eyes and pop my head up. The sun shines into my eyes still crusty with sleep, probably illuminating a trickle or two of dried blood still on my face. I don’t remember sleeping. My dreams must have just imitated the darkness I had look up to as I fell asleep.

The man who had awoken me stands above me, the sun glistening off his wrinkled skin, bouncing off his glasses. He stands straighter than I would expect. Most old  people slowly start to fold in half as their years weigh on them. His skin hangs loosely off of his slender skeleton. He looks at me like he’s concerned.

“Are you okay?”

As he says this he strolls over and puts his hand down, offering it to me.

“Come on, young man. Let me help you out of the dirt.” he says and I take his hand.

He looks me up and down and smiles. “Rough night?” He laughs and pats my back. “Come in. I’m about to make breakfast.”

We walk across the yard, the dewy grass tickling my ankles. I know this old man’s feet are being soaked right through his house slippers.

When we get to the porch, I see how spry he is, seeming to leap right up the stairs to grab the handle on the screen door to hold it open for me. I painstakingly lift my legs up every step. My knees crack and I wobble a bit. My legs are stiff. He nods to me as cross the threshold.

The home is perfect. All the windows are open, air rushing in and out. Sunlight touches the hardwood floor, illuminating all the streaks and different colors that the wood was naturally made with. Pictures of the old man when he was younger and some pretty redhead, always holding hands, always laughing, adorn the walls.

I hear a woman sing from somewhere around one of the corners. The voice floats and echos off the walls. The song is passionate, some kind of gospel.

The old man steps into the house behind me and says, “kitchen’s this way” and walks on, expecting me to follow.

We step into a room of linoleum and bright yellow walls, filled with more sun. There's a wooden table with just enough places set. The voice floats in, It’s an older woman, I assume the man’s wife, most likely the pretty redhead from the pictures. She’s round, full, her skin folded over comfortably  in wrinkles on her face, small lines forming as she smiles.

            He lightly touches her elbow and kisses her. “Good morning Dear.” He says as he pulls away looking sweetly into her eyes. This innocent act so intimate, I wasn’t meant to see it., but I had to look.

“Hello,there,” she says looking past her husband, finding me standing sideways, feeling gravity pull toward the floor. As she sits a bouquet of flowers on the table, she tells me , “ have a seat, dear.”

I sit down and she and her husband bustle around the kitchen. She makes coffee as he cracks eggs into a sizzling pan. Toast pops up out of the toaster. He throw bacon into a popping skillet. I watch the way they move around each other, every so often, glancing toward one another, smiling sideways. They look happy.

She sits a cup of coffee in front of me and sits down pulling her chair in front of me. She pulls out  a wet wash cloth and starts to rub my face.

“Sweetheart, what have you done to yourself. You’re a mess.” She looks at me with worried eyes.

I feel ashamed.

I don’t want to say it.

i don’t want to say what happened.

i don’t want to say i’m a boxer

i don’t want to say for a living i beat,

 i fight.

In the nice home of these nice people

i don’t want to say

 i fight.

i’m quiet.

I close my eyes as she wipes a bit of dirt from them.

            “Ready to eat?” the old man sits down the food on the table and shovels fried eggs and bacon and toast onto my plate.

            My stomach growls.

I start throwing food into my mouth. I gulp the hot coffee, scolding my throat. Some yolk drips on my shirt as i cut  and  shove the egg up into my mouth. Bits of the crunchy bacon crumble onto my lap, into the clean floor. Some slobber finds it’s way out of the corner of my mouth as i ravish this meal.

            They sit looking at me, neatly chopping they’re eggs into small bit size pieces and lift their bacon with delicate fingers, slipping the food onto their tongues.

            This is the first time I’ve eaten with anyone in a while. Again my cheeks flush with embarrassment. I’m an animal. I stop eating and want to make polite discussion but cannot come up with anything to say.

            “Uh, thanks for the food. It’s really delicious.”

            “You looked like you need some help” the old man replies.

            I looked like I needed help.

            I imagine them in the house staring at the monster outside of their window, confused as to if hes lost to death or sleep. I imagine them thinking of their son, seeing him in me, so lost he’s ended up in some elderly person’s barren garden. They were concerned.

            They notice how I’ve begun to sway with discomfort.

            “ So what do you do for a living, son?” the old man speaks to me, smiling.

            I stare at him.

            More shame.

            I have to tell them. You cannot sit at someone’s table, eat their food and then refuse to speak to them.

            I confess.

            “I’m a boxer.” I say slowly turning my head back toward my food.

            They glance back and forth at each other.

            “So is that why you’re all roughed up now?” the old man says with a laugh.

            “Yea,

 I had a match last night.” I reply.

            They shake their heads knowing smiles on their faces.

            “So how did that go?” the woman asks, sounding concerned.

            I wonder if she’s making fun of me.

I look bad, bruised and beaten. Doesn’t she know her husband found me in a pile of dirt?

            I look toward the window. Sunlight hits my face. I am warm. My stomach aches a little bit from eating so much. I am full.

            I face the old man and tell him.

I tell him.

“I won.”

incoherent ignorance

People think I'm so funny and i love that and it makes me sad that i look back on my blog and realize it is no longer funny, even though as a person i don't think I've stopped being as creative and playful. Now though most of the time i am alone and sad and i don't know how to handle it. Ive been through the whole depression thing before and i know that is a constant cycle of dips and highs and being elated from soaring feeling, the confident glowing feeling, a new medication gives you, and then the middle where you're just sort of floating and the end where your drowning, treading water, then dripping wet and cold you wonder into some clinic, full of sniffling children wiggling, their parent praying for a prescription of adderal so they can just calm down those children, those kids, and the doctor gives you some script for lexpro, vibryd, what ever new drug is on the market and says "let's see how that works for you". Usually they'll set you up with a therapist and in my case they can never find a reason for all the darkness i seem to hold. I'm  a true through and through case of clinic depression. I got depressed for the same reason people get cancer or type one diabetes, genetics, bad luck, medical mystery for the pure sake of medical mystery. They say theirs a link between alcoholic grandfathers and depression in his granddaughters.
There is no cure for depression. The only hope i have for a "normal" life not full of sleeping eighteen hours a day and crying spells and burst of angers filling the rest, along with devouring mountains of food trying to fill some hole inside me.

I'm definitely slipping of my floating phase into the drowning one. So I don't want you to take anything I say too seriously. I know when I need to find help again, what works for me, when to stop treading and wave for help, never to wave a white flag.

I know life isn't pointless as I have said in last blog. I'm just living pointlessly like this. I'm struggling for survival for what seems like nothing, because this struggle looks to have no end.

A fellow blogger ((Insert clever title here)) talked about the point of life in her blog. She talks of these shining moments in life, where she truly felt alive and, although she doesn't know what her purpose is, those moments tell her there is one. This made me feel so much better. Someone heard me and told me straight up in a place she knew I and other lost wonders on the Internet would find it that we are wrong.

I'm eighteen and I know nothing about life. I am but some spec in the universe who's been on it for less than a second of it's time and I am so wrong to try to explain it's meaning to anyone, let alone, assign it with none. Of all the years I've spent listening and in school and reading and watching, I still know nothing and that's fine.

Good luck exploring the infinite abyss

I watched garden state last night. By the end of it I was bawling and I never bawl. I'm not much for crying especially over movies. I'm a boulder emotionally. Steady. Gray. Unmovable. This movie got to me though. I felt as if Zach Braff had written a story about how I had felt my whole life. He had reach into me and pulled out a hidden bit that I thought I alone only had. We all have it though. This sense of waiting. We are always planning. We go to school for years, preparing to live some life that we hope will make us happy. We pull people into and out of our life depending on how they fit into those future plans. We are always waiting for some truer life to start for us, but this is it. We are alive and this is our lives and the constant fight we all face everyday to try to make it bearable is never going to stop.

This is what i got from this movie. It's nicely wrapped up. He gets the girl in the end and stays with her. happy ending.

That didnt give me that much hope though, like it was probably intended to.

Instead it reminded me how isolated I feel from everyone. I have some friends. I have a boyfriend who I love so much. I have a family. I still never feel like I'm apart of anything. I'm not needed. If I was never part of any of these people's lives, nothing would be that different for them. More so I feel like I don't need them. Forever I have been the most important person in my life. Everything I do I do for myself and I hate having to rely on anyone for anything.

Ths is why it's so hard for me to make friends. As cliched and stupid as it sounds I do not let people really in. Last night I called my boyfriend crying. I told him how sad I felt. Whenever I present him with problems he always tries to fix them for me. I can't stand that. I'm not sure what I want him to do though. I told him that I didn't feel needed. He said he needed me. I didn't know how to tell him he really doesnt though. He has so many friends and girls that would gladly fill what ever hole I would leave in his life, probably fill it better than I do. They would be stumbling around constantly in a state of numbness, getting drunk and high and fucking just to feel something. I couldn't verbolize how I felt so I just sat on the phone and let him listen to me cry. I said that that must be annoying. He said he stays on the phone with people, not talking all the time; people need the company. I guess that what I want most of all someone to be sad with me. I feel like I'm standing alone on the edge of some cliff and i just want someone to stand with me.

Not only do i feel alone though, I'm overwhelmed that this is life. I'm sick of fighting for everything. I'm sick of working. I'm sick of worring about the future all the time. It's getting in the way of my now but I feel like there is no way to stop.

Don't worry, im not going to kill myself.

What makes me saddest is this isolated restless feeling dosent just lie in me. Garden State's a hugely popular movie. The feeling's and issues it brings up must have resonated with a lot of people.

We all walk arounding wondering what the point to life. Why are we here? all that shit. The truth is that there really is no point. We all just walk around with an expiration date stamped on our foreheads.