A Stream of Poetry:
So this is how it feels to to not give a shit. To let it all go. To throw a semester’s worth of work to the wind. This is a peculiar feeling, not exactly uplifting, but liberating. The anxiety is still there, and I don’t know if that’s something that will ever leave, fail or not. It perpetually manifests: success is holding it together, failure is watching it fall apart. Either way it eats at your consciousness. I’m so sleep deprived now. So so sleep deprived. What’s it been, three days? Four days? I’m so tired that I missed my final today. Of the only two exams I had, I switched their times around completely so that I didn’t even realize the mistake until I was standing in the middle of the empty room asking myself why none of my exams that day were in the rooms they were assigned to. It struck me eerily, like a foreboding prehension that I hardly wanted to accept. I nevertheless returned to the room I stood in earlier that day asking the same question to see if the prehension was correct, and it was. There were my little fellow philosophy peers amongst the filed rows of chairs, splattered around the room in no coherent fashion, waiting eagerly and anxiously for the exam to begin so they could be done with it.
So this is what it feels like to fail, to look your professor in the eye and explain that your all around lack of presence, in assignments and in the classroom, is a result of ‘mental problems’, and trying to live with yourself after it escapes your mouth. The pathetic words that echo back ‘excuses, excuses!’ and ‘how weak, how pathetic!’ and all the other jeering onslaughts of self abuse. So I finished one exam. I deserve a badge of effort, effort for not killing myself. So I slurp my beer, trying to drown the incessant thoughts rapping, rapping, rapping at the back of my eyes, those damn images. They never leave. No. The festering thoughts linger like the mucous in your mouth, always present and never a problem until there’s too much or too little. Either way, there’s entirely too much now, so I need to wash’em away, wash’em away with booze. Good’ol booze. The body killer, the liver lacerator, the mind melter: booze. The shit that makes you dull and happy and careless all at the same time. It makes you feel alright, makes you feel damn good. And damn good means feeling damn less, especially when you’re battling mental fatigue and those little insults begin worming into the cavities of self esteem. That’s when you know you’re in big trouble. When your esteem is in jeopardy.
So I recline in my bed, head and torso propped up with a few pillows, laptop on the stomach, sprawled out in boxers, pounding beer. And writing. Writing. Let that god damn itch work its way onto paper, into words. Get it out. Let it escape god damnit. I want nothing of it. Take my body, it’s nothing. Have it in its half naked drunken state. Its too tired and useless for me. So take it.
The therapist. Oh that man. That egomaniac man who’s as jolly as he is self absorbed.
Tell me about my problems, dear sir. I said I was feeling depressed. He said this was a result of narcissism. I said the anxiety was bubbling over. He said I was justifying my state through circumstances, a typical move he hears all the time. I say I don’t need drugs. He says I should get on them cause whatever I’m doing isn’t working. I say I need to change my environment. He says… See: narcissism.
Pabst Blue Ribbon. It’s supposedly a hipster beer, whatever that means. It’s a god damn good beer. Best cheap beer you can buy. 6% alcohol content. American (not that I give a shit). And it doesn’t taste like absolute shit. I actually enjoy drinking it, and would almost prefer it to any beer. Except, not really. I’m waiting for the sedation to kick in. The god damn ethonol, it’s pumping through my veins, through my cerebrum. I can feel it. It’s mind numbing. It’s euphoric, like a dose of ecstasy in a spat of dew, I like it and it rejuvenates, but only briefly before it begins working its anesthetic magic on my mind. God damnit its nice. Alcohol, my illustrious lover of long lappings. Lappings that span many a night. Me and her. The alcohol and my brain. Fucking and sucking until they’re exhausted and elated and dumb and happy all at the same time.
I haven’t gotten this much rawness out in a long time. Maybe it’s the fatigue, the sheer exhaustion that raped my inhibitions into a timid, meek, pathetic excuse for a censor. Either way. It’s nice. fuck you.
So upon leaving the exam I drove directly to the closest beer store and picked up a twelve pack. Minutes later I stripped my clothes off and began drinking, in my bed, with massive gulps, like the alcohol contained oxygen for my soul.
To my fellow zombies peering into web space: Stare at those images, yea, stare at them for hours, obsess over them, tell yourself you aren’t pretty enough, you aren’t good enough, then throw up, throw up the nausea that plagues your past time, your internet past time that thrusts and throbs itself over these images of warped wonder. The perfection doesn’t exist, but that doesn’t keep us from imagining it does.