It is said that the most dangerous person on Earth is someone who has nothing to lose. This is true, and that someone is me. Not that I'm going to go shooting up a McDonald's or something like that. Such actions are for losers. And while I may be a loser in many ways, I'm not going to be a loser in that way. I refuse to do something so weak and petty. I much prefer to say things that make people question their beliefs. When I'm in a regular frame of mind I kind of try not to upset people. When I'm hurt I want to upset people. I want to make them question everything they've ever known. I want revenge on the world for having made me an outcast all my life for being what I am even though I never tried to hurt anybody. So I want to upset the apple cart, so to speak. Right on top of everyone. And I want it to make them fearful.
The good thing about being a nobody is that there is nobody to try to impress, so you can say what the fuck you want. What I want is to bleed out the ugliness inside me. I won't because there is another person in the house with me. But that is what I want. When the rage reaches the boiling point, the hate of the hurt that has been inflicted rises to the surface. Why it comes to this I don't know. Every spring I am filled with hate and sickness. I get seasonal depression in the spring rather than the winter. This is more common than people think. The month in which the suicide rate is highest is April, not December.
With spring comes disappointment. The realization that I have failed again rises to the surface. Things are beautiful and that somehow makes everything worse.
I published this on my psychological issues blog that I will not give the link for because its kind of a sanctuary. Why am I reprinting it here? Because you can't lose what you don't have--readers. So I'm putting it here because I fucking want to. That's all.
REGRET
The good thing about being a nobody is that there is nobody to try to impress, so you can say what the fuck you want. What I want is to bleed out the ugliness inside me. I won't because there is another person in the house with me. But that is what I want. When the rage reaches the boiling point, the hate of the hurt that has been inflicted rises to the surface. Why it comes to this I don't know. Every spring I am filled with hate and sickness. I get seasonal depression in the spring rather than the winter. This is more common than people think. The month in which the suicide rate is highest is April, not December.
With spring comes disappointment. The realization that I have failed again rises to the surface. Things are beautiful and that somehow makes everything worse.
I published this on my psychological issues blog that I will not give the link for because its kind of a sanctuary. Why am I reprinting it here? Because you can't lose what you don't have--readers. So I'm putting it here because I fucking want to. That's all.
REGRET
I worked very hard on my book and think it had a very important message that people were too blind to see.
I know I will die a failure and filled with regret. I wish that even just a few people could have seen that I did one thing that was real and true and wonderful and not a lie just to please other people and shut them up.
Sometimes a person needs to hear "you done good."
I was always an alien in this world. Nothing I did ever fit in. I always hoped that someday I would find other aliens. But the only others are dead already.
I will die alone and unloved, I am sure. What does it matter? If you are unloved when you die you will cease to exist. So I will cease to exist. But probably even in oblivion there will be no peace but only the howling of regret.
All is shit in my dead heart.
The world would be better off if I were never born.
I know I will die a failure and filled with regret. I wish that even just a few people could have seen that I did one thing that was real and true and wonderful and not a lie just to please other people and shut them up.
Sometimes a person needs to hear "you done good."
I was always an alien in this world. Nothing I did ever fit in. I always hoped that someday I would find other aliens. But the only others are dead already.
I will die alone and unloved, I am sure. What does it matter? If you are unloved when you die you will cease to exist. So I will cease to exist. But probably even in oblivion there will be no peace but only the howling of regret.
All is shit in my dead heart.
The world would be better off if I were never born.
Fellow alien checking in to say, "You done good." Maybe the message in the book wasn't for anyone else, maybe it was very special and just for you.
I have unpublished stuff, too. It is very disappointing, isn't it? Have you shopped it all you can? You know what the pros say about this sort of thing, don't you? "What? They didn't want that book? Well, write another one!"
The book is published and available. I've sold all of 25 copies. Worthless.
The message of the book is better treatment for persons with mental illness and also a looking into the heart and soul of someone who deserved better than he got. If that is a message only for me, it's a pretty pathetic commentary on the population of this world.
I do not play the "papering the walls with rejection slips" game. I'm too old for that shit. It doesn't work for new authors these days anyhow. I used a POD publisher. This is something that I really believe in but I am very discouraged at the skepticism and sneering that I receive from all quadrants. People think that the subject of my book was just a crazy person and good riddance to bad rubbish that he killed himself. But really he was better than most people on this planet combined. Myself, it will be good riddance to bad rubbish when I finally kill myself. But until then I will do what I do and fuck the world anyway because its always fucked me.