They tell me I can’t be a writer, I’m not an alcoholic. Trust me, it’s in my gene pool, and I’m drowning on my own Jack. I write like Louis C.K., for a special, then it’s forgotten some. You were all my HBOs, my heart broken outcomes; where out comes an outlook that’s out of dates, out of time, and love to give. Ladies used to tell my mom that I would be a heartbreaker; they meant heartbroken, because I no longer get chased by girls, unless it’s some weird freeze tag ritual, in which I’m never it, just left out to stand in the cold. I’m the path of least resistance, and I’m standing in my own way.
When I was a kid, I could only eat BK chicken sandwiches by cutting them in half; now I binge eat, and depressed is not a vegetable, and I am not in that state, physically, but mentally, home is where that heart is. Closed down video stores, jumbo to west coast, secret spots discovered amid rollerblades and friendships lost. East meets city, took a bus across the train track, where recess seemed dull, so I used to talk to a tree planted in the memory of a teacher that I never had.
I write speeches, kind of like Ziegler, except no one reads them, says them, or feels them. Morose code rejections waiting in the mailbox, with rhetoric that’s useless. They tell me I can do this? Watched site stats form a high-rise, and a phobia of my lines. Isolated scores decide trajectories without melodies, an orchestra of my bitter discontent, cemented with half finished answers of lightly colored and/or not entirely erased, beautiful ovals. It’s over? Hardly, it’s just the tip of this iceberg.
I found a white hair in my beard, and I don’t feel distinguished. You ever hear praise, and know better? Do you ever wish people still wrote letters? There’s something about discovering hand writing on pages, that makes memories feel like they actually existed, instead of being negated. Vague ideas wrapped in a complex puzzle, in the top right corner of a notebook, or below the fold of a week (now months) old newspaper. The letter o scribbled quickly looks like the number 6, turning a rushed apology into a headlined joke. You don’t dot i’s, and I dote over eyes.
Just tell me how you do it. Just tell me your resolve. Tell me if it’s all worth it, and how it’s all my fault. Tell me the secret to your smile, and the truth to your pain. Tell me if this lasts forever, or if it’ll happen again. You were the gift that kept on giving, and made life worth living, but it’s no longer the beginning, so just tell me how you did it. Just tell me how you coped. Please tell me time be damned, the young never get old, at heart or in spirit, or when your love story’s finally told.
I’m shipwrecked, think reverse message in a bottle. I can’t sleep, I hear violins, and see prophecies get lost in dreams. My eyes are wide open, but the night’s not, and the days seem heartless; now that’s just mean. Now that’s just me. Head aches of truthful lies, disbelief, and shattered conformity. Phone vibrates, there’s no answer, I am the worst telethon, not even worth a cheap tote bag. Superman curl with plaid pajamas, dressed to impress my own bed, a dresser, and a closet full of unread books, as a stolen pillow from a hotel wishes me sweet dreams.
It’s time for a reality check, I was always more of a hybrid. The camera’s not on, in the morning, Troy and Abed. I’m still pretty childish, I’ve got juice box swag. I’m still pretty childish, I refuse to wave the white flag. I’m still pretty childish, suffering withdrawal from one strapping book bags. I wish I wasn’t childish, a jackass, or any such tag. If nothing else survives past this, past us, or past me, just know you turned good-hearted Jay [Singh] into The Great Gatsby.
I like the drama on The Office, sue me. Even with all the cameras, it’s finally starting to feel lonely. If only real life were more like Jim and Pam? It’s more a dependency, I’m Rihanna to your Chris Brown. That’s blasphemy. That’s fantasy, about as real as us at a party, haven’t seen you in a few years, you look gorgeous, and all of a sudden you’re kissing me? Even in my vivid dreams, I cant do more than pull away, because it feels untrue, and I feel unworthy.
My new cell phone matches my work pants; that’s not a compliment, that’s just kinda sad. I don’t wear a name tag anymore; that sounds personal, but I stand behind a counter, take your money, and perform stand up jokes. I used to write about a house of cards, and now I stream it via Netflix. In the last few months, I’ve been sleepless, because I know you’re not sleepless. So to anyone reading this, pretend as if I don’t exist, except for on this website, your handheld device, and in my own mind. To no one in particular, I’m with no one in particular. I like being the laughingstock, and love being the afterthought. No vacancy. No Valentine. Insert anthem: Paradox Lost, will you be mine?
— Jump before you looK down