Through the holes in my head, it's another Friday night in a college town. So sober I think I'm going to drown in the echoes from these dri-walls; I'm a refugee from the BMG Music Club. I'll give you that, I know the words -- but it just gets more and more absurd. Read between the lines. It's not 1969. I'm standing here, head against the wall, watching the soft-white smiles and pressed-wood antics of the scene unseized. I'm walking alone toward home and the typewriter clicks of someone's homework sound so much more musical than the party across the way. I'm walking away from the grade-school streetcorner on Friday the 13th, and the only thing to scare me is the level of my own boredom.
I'm stomping home, snapping fingers and singing in my head: We've got to get away from here, a whole religion built around beer. I'm in no mood for poison tonight. I might just drop it all. I've paid my rent. I'm stepping on the cracks. Guam or bust. Yeah, right.
Now I'm lying here on my bed, and it feels strangely soothing the way my arm is falling asleep, contorted under my chest. I'm staring at a spot on my wall and wondering what else I can do to forestall sleeping a little longer.
I'm going to make some future plans. I'm going to drink nothing but water. Lock myself in the closet. I understand this world and I don't like how it works. Deny, deny, counteraccuse. Ignore. I'm going to teach myself how to cry. I'm going to kill the sorrow. I'm going to kill tomorrow.
This morning I saw a dead pigeon on the sidewalk. The wings were intact, but the body had exploded. Somebody had puked in front of the next driveway. Maybe they were unrelated. I wanted to puke too, but couldnŐt raise enough bile. That bothers me sometimes.
Are you still listening? Alright. Diaries are diseases of introspection. Dull collages of dull pilgrimages. Attitude trumps honesty, any day. Slap a price tag on it. Shrink-wrap. We validate our fantasies by marketing them. We sublimate self-consciousness by channeling it to art. We make documentaries of our grand schemes in lieu of finding the courage to act unsubsidized.
This is what I'm trying to say. Maybe it doesn't make any difference to you. I'm not asking for validation. I just wanted to say I don't need permission to say what I feel. I don't believe in the sanctity of my own mind. I'd rather be psychopathetic than sycophantastic. If it's shocking it's because of this dichotomy between what you feel and what you say, between experience and expression.
Sure, this isn't what I'm supposed to be writing. Here's a joke, so you get your money's worth: What's the trouble with nuns?
Give up? There aren't any.
This is first person. This is first person.