The Highs The Lows & How To Respond

I am far from perfect. I know you look at me and you see this put together sort of guy who creates things that amaze you. I read your blogs imaginary friends. I know what you said. It was lovely. It was horrible. It wasn’t said at all. I am trying to start this with some witty thing, some bravado, some dignity.

It’s not working.

Oh well, nothing else to do but carry on. I was sitting on the couch today, the room was a bit dark so I asked Peggy to turn on the light which was beside her. I asked this I thought because it was in the center most of the room and could illuminate a wider area. Simple.

It’s not working.

“What’s wrong with your light?” why nothing, no nothing at all. I just thought it made more sense to distribute light in the manner I championed.Also the lamp makes me kinda hot and, since I insist on being, I sweat. It’s weird I don’t like it, sweating that is. “Shouldn’t you be on some sort of thyroid medication?”….yes…yes Peggy I should, but when one loses their job and their insurance such things generally go hand in hand. “Maybe that’s why your sweating” …valid point, I will be sure to address it at my next community meeting. I fortunately have another job set up Peggy for when I return from my brother’s wedding. So with that comes money and, benefits and huzzah I think we are all old enough to know how the rest works. So could you please turn o…

“You should be on anti-depressants.”

It’s not working.

Should I? “I certainly think so.” well thanks for that insight Peggy.

The conversation for the most part ended there, one can only force themselves to speak on a topic that does not revolve around themselves for only so long. I understand. I appreciate it. I can only imagine what it took for her to say that to me. I know she does not like me. She has made that very clear. She refers to me in front of my children as an idiot, or a faggot. I only now how to half ass things. She has on more than one occasion without regard told my seven year old daughter that I am going to die of cancer one day because I smoke. She tells my wife constantly that I have issues because I do not cry enough and there is something wrong with me. So you have to imagine the amount of piss she gave herself to stop and say something to me that involved concerned. This person who I exchange pleasantries with while pretending to not be aware of the utter contempt she holds for me (or maybe she knows I am aware and she likes it that way, I cannot be sure sure) had to have this moment where she the instigator of ALL aggression had to take a pause from her own personal endless war upon me and my person to tell me to get help.

It’s not working.

How does that feel? Does she feel like she’s cheating? I thought I was performing rather fine. I thought I looked fucking dapper. Shrugging off any all attacks. Smashing my fist into my head and my head into my driver’s side window. Smiling. Performing and sleeping. Well I clearly must be a wreck because Peggy has said something about it and I know she doesn’t fucking care if I live or die. So. Maybe I am depressed.

It’s not working.

Perhaps there is something queer is going round in my universe. There might be a chance that all the dextromethorphan was a sign. Maybe this carousel is spinning too fast. Far far too fast. The ambient light is not enough to see what is happening exactly but if I reach out, if I ignore the burning and the screaming things that are lining the cavities of my mind; rattling their teeth against jail bars in excitement for their turn at me. If I reach out just past all that I see everything I want.

It’s not working.

That is bullshit though so instead I turn a table upside down and let the room join it, fuck all for I care. I breathe fire. Shut the fuck up. I dream demons. Go fuck yourself. I stumble dance across the floor in a sort of sad waltz one can only do alone while waiting for sweet sweet death to expire. So I get up and get dressed and I have no other choice but, to accept the fact that there is something wrong with me fundamentally at my core. Maybe not entirely but it is corrupted. I let something inside too deep. What is it though?

It’s not working.

It doesn’t want me to find it, but I will sooner or later. I am going to be ok. I promise. So no worries imaginary friends. None of this is real anyway. I will find what has infected me and I will extract it or die trying. It wants me to think my efforts aren’t working. That I should just give up. I do not do that.

IT’S NOT WORKING.

Shut the fuck up you tired old cunt.

I do not ever surrender. I have nothing to give you even if I did. Your victory would be hollow. So I will not surrender. Fuck you.

I repeat this for the people in the back back seats who cannot hear me either do to old age or distance.

I am motherfucking Kevin.

Kevin.

I breathe fire.

I dream demons.

This is over when I am done with you.

(I thank you for your concern, it goes noted I love you for it.)

 

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