Everything is falling down around me now. Crashing one by one like a Nazi firing squad. How did I get here? When did I lose my sanity? Do I have any idea what’s going on? All questions that I’ll never be able to answer. It’s all these assholes’ fault. Everyone in my life. They all sit around me and appreciate me and it’s sickening. They’re all idiots. They should spend their time doing more productive things instead of caring about me. Maybe they could build dams in Guatemala. Or sell crack on the streets of New York. Either way, they’d be making progress. Caring about me is like driving down a dead end road at 200 miles an hour. Oh you’ll get to the end alright, you’ll just never be satisfied when you’re there. You’ll only be disappointed. Yes there’s an on-ramp that takes you back to the beginning again, but you’re running lower and lower on gasoline every time. I don’t think anyone has run out yet, but I’m sure that a few of them are running on fumes. Their fuel gauges are all fucked up anyway. You can never trust those bastards. I need some grass or whiskey or something. Something to smooth these nerves. Every month I slowly wind myself tighter and tighter until, at the end of the month, I finally let loose in a tidal wave of shit. It’s like the Berlin wall coming down, only it stands for the opposite. It stands for injustice, and lack of reasoning. It all comes down to holding everyone I care about to higher standards. Maybe it’s common practice among people (or loonies), but I think I do it to extremes. I put them down for doing things that I do ten times over. But why? Because I think they’re better than me? Shit no, they’re swine. I’m the supreme King. But WHY then? Maybe it’s because I want to feel special. Or that they’re all characters in my masterpiece, and if they don’t go by my script there’ll be hell to pay. Shit, if they do something I don’t like they’ll get the silent treatment. The guillotine. Hell, maybe turn the Nazi firing squad on them. See how THEY like it. Put them inside my brain, onstage, front and center. Throw these rotten thoughts at them until they squirm. Hateful tomatoes and psychotic lettuce. Shit, that’s the ultimate punishment, being inside my head. If my mind were a form of punishment it would have been banned in the 1800’s, and they were sick fuckers back then. Lynchings, be-headings, flourishing art. But do they all really deserve this? No, not at all. I love them. But why beat them down with my negative attitude then? Because I can. They’ll keep coming back for more. They’re addicted, and like any good dealer, I abuse them. Raise the prices. My stock is rising, so why not have a little fun? Flex my controlling muscles? Because it’s WRONG, that’s why! What kind of sick fucker thinks like this? Hopefully a dead one. So I cool it. Hang out. Don’t be so critical. Let the chips fall. Then, when no one is looking, pick them all up and hoard them in some dark corner of my brain. Keep tabs on everything that everyone does, so that when the time is right I can remind them of that time they accidentally stepped on my toe in second grade. Then they’ll pay, oh yes. Silence again. Maybe some machine gun fire. What a grand old time it’ll be. They’ll rue the day they cared about me, oh yes. I’ll see to it.
Gibberish! Blasphemy! All crazy thoughts. Lock them away in that little black box in the back. No one will touch it until one day a new family moves in and some unsuspecting kid opens it and unleashes it all once again. Every month. New family, same results. I feel different, but end up in the same place. Less and less fuel. How long can I maintain before I take a different road? Is there a hidden off-ramp somewhere? Am I missing an important sign? I know what everyone is going to do and I know exactly how to get what I want. It’s a horrible curse. How do I rid myself of this skill. Frontal lobotomy? Electric shock? Heavy substance abuse? Cross dressing? No one knows, but one thing is for sure: I’ll undoubtedly be tuning in to some random AM station to listen for accident reports. Wherever I’m going, it’ll be a smooth ride. No unexpected stops. Full speed ahead, all the way. I can only ask one thing, and that is that you have some sympathy and some taste. If not, then at least have a large bottle of gin or a hammer waiting for me.