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I'm so fucking tired of this. Crying every night, being lied to by those you should be able to trust. Why can't I just have a sliver of good, something to keep a smile on my face for longer than a minute, instead of these bullshit lies from people. Not people, people lie that's what they do, but women, the women who should be close that should be trusted.

I don't matter.

If I did why would people treat me like this, why would the people closes lie, cheat, and hurt. And when that happens, why would I want to deal with the world and those within it? I don't know how much longer I can hold on. I don't know if I want to. I die tonight the world keep turning tomorrow. Nothing changes, nothing should. People live and die, and some get to enjoy that time alive and some don't.

I had one true perfect day in my life. Everything was right, and good, and special, for no other reason than it was. Though the timing was right, the person was right, and for a few hours life was right.

ASBURY PARK (Ass-Berry Fart) stupid gag but it made us laugh. Oh to be or feel young again.

Four, five years now. Might as well be another life. Maybe it's just me, but moments of true, pure bliss are so rare in this existence. I'm glad I got to experience one. It was a show, some young kid, a promoter for the punk scene's birthday. Ton of wannabe, would-be bands, magicians, comedians, ect. ect. ect. came out to perform. The whole thing was streamed over some site and other shit I guess. The show itself, as most of these shows go, was terrible. I was on the bill that night, and four of us drove up together.

There was me, that is Chris, and my three droogs, that is Shari, MB, and of course Hannah. Shari was on the show pulling double duty, I was on before the closing act, MB was there to film, and take photos, and Hannah was there because I was there. We did almost everything together at this time. I was just out of a very abusive relationship and we were both finding ourselves at similar crossroads. Christ, I could write a book about her, if I had the talent, patience, and vocabulary.

The whole ride up she was riding shotgun with me behind the wheel. The two of us ignoring the backseat, listing to the Grateful Dead. Speeding the whole way, hands on the wheel, Hannah lighting up my smokes for me. Damn, it sounds stupid as I type it, read it, hear it, but it was so cool too me. My mind is freezing. Too much wine and too much song I suppose...

Plus tonight got tough, I wish I had a human to vent with. I mean I do to an extent. A great extent really with Hannah. I love her, always will on some level. I want to find the right way to tell her, not that I love her. Shit, I've told her that so many times. Letters. Flowers. No boy ever sent her flowers. That's how she put it, and I loved her, so I did. I loved the idea of her, perhaps that is more correct. She always puts me at ease. And steadily has become a "constant" for me. So few now, and without them I can easily lose myself within myself. And myself is not a place I enjoy venturing into alone. I find when face to face, drinking, smoking, when there are others about, and those others have reached the appropriate state of intoxication it is much easier to be in my head. Mostly because people seem to enjoy visiting. It's a novelty to some. How absurd is that? Depression, my illness, my darkness, it's the world's largest ball of yarn to everyone. Sure they think it's "awesome." “Cool." "Man I wish I could do that." But they don't understand the toll that darkness takes. But the bigger thing, always missed by people is not the effects of the darkness in our minds. It's the effects of accepting it, of allowing it to be part of you. The point, I think the point I was getting at anyway; is that most people don't...

Fuck it. Thankfully no one reads this, so my rambles are sheer brilliance to me.... But I do wish I had somebody to tell this all to. I’d like to say maybe one day, but optimism is for the ignorant and French.

I do have to wonder if this might be the last thing I ever write. And I have to wonder if I'd want it to be. It's the rambles of a man on many substances, none of which are as hard as I'd prefer during this current situation. Though fuck do I care what people think. Besides this rant gives no insight into the actual damaged mind I carry in my skull. I'm not nearly drunk, high, or otherwise incoherently shit-face blasted to talk about the madness lurking in the darkness of me. That is a road I'm not about to go down.

In case this is the last thing I write. My swan song.... I want to write these words and stupid, but I want them to be the last words. Tonight may not be my end, but it draws near. Not much longer now, I have to finish the final act, but maybe it is over and I can't accept it. Maybe the story ended long ago and I've become to upset with a happy ending (both from a massage parlor and in life)

In this moment, after this night I don't know if I am ready to die. But that seems to be changing minute to minute. I have no one I much care to say goodbye to, aside from those I know will be the most hurt. Though they are also the ones will accept it the easiest.

I've attempted suicide twice in my adult life. Once I was stopped. Walked in on with the noose around my neck. The second time was in Denver, while making a documentary. I took so many pills, but not enough, and I woke up the next morning with tears, honest to god tears in my eyes. Can you even imagine that feeling? To open your eyes and see you are still here, and those eyes imminently go blurry. I believe to this day in some way shape, form, I was intended to die that night, the first night. The ladder, the noose. If there is a soul it left my body that night. Something was lost. I could die tonight. Take my own life and nobody would notice. Shit nobody will ever see this. That's poetic in some way, is it not? I mean this here, right here could be my final words. And they are some of the truest words I've ever written. Yes it's a cluster fuck of babel, no doubt with typos and grammar mistakes that would make a first grader shake their head. But this is my mind, spilled out on this page for the sheer fact that I know it will go unseen, forgotten. Like the real me. Kept hidden from those in my life, a man no one ever knew, and never could. I guess I could just open the flood gates. Let the real mean come out. The part that is mostly dark, sinister.... But maybe that's not me, maybe that's who I've let myself become. I wonder now in what could be my final moments on this earth, if that little spark of light I see every so often, could that be my truest form?

I'll never know.

And Just in case I never put another word to a page, and just in case someone somehow reads this, know this is no joke. I spent a very long time thinking on this and, well , you know what? They're my final words, and what matters is that they mattered to me.... (Though my reason for choosing them is pretty wicked.)

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"



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