Posted in My Daily Adventures, My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I hate feeling alone… and I hate feeling scared, used and abused… but what I hate most of all is this inescapable sense of being open game. I hate feeling so vulnerable.

It’s not like I felt 100% secure in myself before, but I didn’t feel exposed all the time. I cared about how I looked, but only to what I considered a normal degree. I spent time each morning doing my hair, making sure it looked nice, and that was that; I didn’t waste anymore time or effort. Nowadays I spend the whole day catching glimpses of myself in puddles and dirty windows, and I am never satisfied with what I see. I sit in my car before work, messing with my face, trying to manipulate my hair, eyes and general physiology into something presentable, but I never get out of my car feeling human. It’s like I’m always wearing shoes that are just a tad to tight. 

It’s that feeling of opening the fridge to see what’s inside, closing it without having grabbed anything, and realizing you just checked your washing machine for food, and yes, you never even started that load of laundry, so you’ll be sleeping without sheets for the millenith time this century.

My face has no purpose, so everywhere it appears is another new nowhere. It’s not as I’m terrifyingly ugly, but I’m so out of place that I’m often mistaken for avant garde art, if an avant garde artist was on meth, and wasn’t really an artist at all but just some drug addicted 20 something sharing her “art” with her 97 Instagram followers, 8 of which are accounts she made to try and inflate her online persona.

I’m confusing to the public, regardless of the time, place, or lens through which I am viewed. Smartphone cameras consider my face as a smudge, so at least I can avoid being tagged in pictures posted to social media. But if you don’t exist on Facebook, are you even real? Without my opinions being expressed via Tweets and hashtags, I might as well not have opinions at all! My existence is a lie! Maybe I’m just the first of a new breed of modern ghosts. Maybe, if I spend another 5 years avoiding things like the Sun and any situation that has me interacting with another human being, I’ll finally just become a transparent blob. Perhaps, in that someday 5 years away, people who cast their gaze across the dotted lines of the early morning expressway will experience various levels of awe as they marvel at the modern wonder that is a driverless 2013 Honda Civic. Perhaps those people will even spare a thought as to why anybody would spend the money to retrofit such a vehicle to be self-driving, and perhaps even a few of those people will see the faint outline of my bulging form behind the wheel and realize this isn’t a technological wonder; it’s just a really pale and depressed fat human ragdoll.

Maybe I’m being too harsh on myself. 

Or maybe I just don’t give a fuck about my life.

But honestly? I hate myself, and I believe I deserve to feel this way.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

Days turned to weeks, and now it’s been months; exactly 96 days I’ve been sober. But that’s left my mind with nothing but time to wonder about you and me…so I’m sober, but I’m suffocating, trying to accept a me without you…

Now I remember your face

The name you remind me of, so fake

This bitter pill, just a bit overkill

But theater has its place’s


We have come to a fork in the middle of this road

Damnit, who put this here?

Blocking my way, making it harder to say

What I need to


Well if I weren’t drunk, I could walk in a straight line.

But if I weren’t drunk, would I have the courage to dance?


So I’ll take another shot,

Some cold, liquid courage,

Injecting some iron

Into my spine

O, but it’s irony at its best

When you say, “I meant it!”

You meant it, you meant it!

O, how you lie


So you’re exposed, losing composure

Gaining a gloomy expression

What was that for, why so down?

You never could answer my questions


Seemingly unbreakable, I’m fragile

Your outer shell still intangible

The clock is broken, but I know the time;

I’m learning to not take the gamble.

Well if I weren’t high, all of the time, I would be pretty damn successful

But even on this high, I can tell that it’s time, and so I am walking away


Your face is beautiful, it’s true.

Physically flawless, a wonderful view.

But there’s nothing underneath;

You’re an empty physique.

And it’s time I said goodbye to you.