Thanks for the Brews:


Sip your beer you piece of shit, sip it again and again until it’s all gone. Yeah, fucking smooth I know, I don’t care if I’m not smooth, I’m fucking driftwood.

You think that’s important right, that thought you have that makes you a person. A three dimensional person. The things that make up your thoughts and feelings that you could only ever articulate the smallest slither of. Maybe you think you’ll do something, or find someone. It doesn’t matter ultimately, because they’re yours alone and not anyone else’s.

I don’t like bullies, people who decide to use their articulated thoughts to get what they want at the expense of other people. Often though I find myself asking why they’re doing that? Because it normally comes from a place of pain. I want you here right now, all the time because I’m lonely and I’m afraid of being alone and I have this bubbling anxiety that you’ll find something better without me. Yet instead of saying that, instead of being honest and attempting to articulate that dimension of you, others find it easier at times to use the surface of it to satisfy that wound.

I had some interesting responses from people that felt that way. One made a comic strip explaining what was wrong with me. How I failed to understand things and why I was a broken piece of shit. It was a little baffling and slightly insulting. The assumption I couldn’t comprehend their view, when in reality I think I just didn’t want to understand it. So desperate measures I suppose. I had another girl who I had fucked for a few months, one who got a little too emotionally close too soon, while I coolly ignored it. We had ceased seeing each other for a while, a number of months passed and I thought we could still be friends. Though as we sat opposite the quays she said she wanted to kiss me, but not before pointing to her boyfriend’s apartment across the water. I don’t know what to make of that. I should’ve walked away and I’m quite proud I did, because it’s easy to kiss someone, in fact it’s the easiest thing in the world to do. To promise someone validation by offering them affection, time, acknowledgement.

That’s not adult though is it. To be co-dependent. Because it only takes one thing to break the system. I suppose I’m quite independent when I’m independent, and not so independent when I’m feeling not so independent. Those tides in me change often and rapidly and it’s easy to fall into a relationship where the other assumes your one or the other all the time, and that when you change they react like it’s something unusual, new and not a real ”part of you”, just a blip. Maybe it is, but it’s a reoccurring blip. Because you’re a person too, a three dimensional person, where you’re deciding how to articulate the full force of your every thought and feeling. Choosing what to say and how to say it, and sometimes you don’t even really get to choose, you’re just at the whims of the cuts inside your mouth bleeding out into words and whines.

The implication that you depend on me can leave me with an uncomfortable feeling. Not because I don’t care, or I’m angry at you for it, but because I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. What is anger but fear, wounded from a place so deep it reflects more in the person that’s angry then the one you’re angry at? Not that I could ever be angry at you. Cause as much as I hate to admit it I depend on you too. What should I do? What do you want to know? I’ll tell you. I hate it when my friends sit across the table and dissect my life, like they understand where I come from or what I mean. Writing jokes on whiteboards like I act seriously. When I joke, when it’s always a joke.

It is though, because you’ve never loved yourself. The universe man, it’s split in three. In our heads too, the way we separate things. Past, present, future. How do you even know if you’re experiencing the present? How do you even know what you’re doing now isn’t just a memory? Maybe it all is, and you’re just reliving it at the end. Or you’ll wake up after you die and it’s all a dream.

Three universes, the past, the present, the future. You would explain across the table to your frowning mother. Yeah maybe they’re right and they should up your dose of antipsychotics. That would be easier for them right. Neglect you again. Maybe the piece of shit CBT officer can give you some comfort in that cold empty room you visit once a week. Oh you dread the bus ride you take alone. Waiting forty minutes in the cold just so you can be told you’re crazy, and when you break down in tears there’s no comfort from them, or anyone. You’re crazy right? So fuck you. That’s what they make you feel like. Everyone and everything. It’s just a fucking write off. You hate yourself because you’re overwhelmed by the idea that you’re different. You’re not different though, you just fell into the system that turns people into products. Pushed around by privileged career shits that gave up caring twenty years ago. Just waiting for their pension to mature so they can retire with their double garage. They’re not there to enable you, they’re there to not be accountable for when something goes wrong. ‘’It’s not our fault it’s cause they went off their meds’’. ‘’It’s not our fault they never showed up’’. Showed up for what? Showed up to be burned again, to be reminded that world sees you as an anomaly, a problem. Fuck that. I want to be happy. Is that hard to ask?
Sometimes you feel like a red hot chilli peppers song, sometimes you feel like you don’t have a partner, sometimes you feel like a fucking a loser baby so why don’t you kill me, sometimes you feel like you’re taking ten steps back just to take a few more.





Bad Autumn


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Weird autumn‘, she said through a mouth of smoke. I clung to the railing holding a sweating water bottle to my head. ‘Yeah, weird autumn‘, I said back, sucking on the fag end till I felt the filter fold.

We stared at the farce of trees dotting the outside of the park, the brown streaked like hands of leaves billowing as if pulled by an ocean current. Invisible lines of force exerting itself on nature, leaving the sidewalk cluttered with the remains of photosynthesis, life and death… She left me with a thought before she left for good. You only see the seasons change 80 times… If you’re lucky that is.

That’s eighty autumns, that’s eighty times to dress up as your favorite monster. eighty excuses to try that new coffee that’s a little too pricey, but hey it’s colder now so treat yourself… Eighty times to see the world spin by those invisible lines of force. Time.

It started like most autumns do, with the malaise of winter eating away at the  niceties of summer. The hot washed days of late sunlight that hang in the air, the fat burning, spoiled ice cream that melts with life onto and off the pavement. Where sex feels great because that fever is so bad and skin melts in your fingers. I want to say it was a good one, I want to say I did something interesting or I surprised myself. Or that I made a connection for life, that I found something in someone that made me go oh… Another one of me is out there, just over there, probably too wrapped up in their interior life to imagine me also wrapped up in mine.

I have a spot, not far from campus, there isn’t a bench but a short wall I’ll sit on. Sometimes hipsters or teens will climb the statue in front. Play pop songs from tinny phone speakers or dare each other to jump off the top. Though the sideshow of kids isn’t why it’s my spot. It’s the apartment buildings the break up the skyline, the little grey boxes that swallow patches of blue behind them. Not filled with metal, machinery and office equipment. But people, their lives, their belongings, and inside one of those apartments, actually all of those apartments is a person. A person that’s just as much of a person as you, or me… One with a history and a present, and a future. You might never know it, likely you won’t. It will just happen around you, more little invisible lines.

They say psychopaths aren’t convinced other people have interior lives. Voices and consciousness, understanding, thought. They believe they are uniquely intelligent in that regard. Moments like this remind me of the overwhelming scale of it, how mind numbingly painful it is to remember every person is in fact a person just as complicated and fucked up as you. I can understand switching off from that, it’s horrible at times. Complicated, messy. I’ve known people who ignore these facts, sometimes if you just don’t want to think you’ll numb yourself with distractions. Sometimes it’s people, friends, family, others alcohol, drugs, cigarettes. Things that help eat away at those feelings, those thoughts that are so all consuming they feel more like bear traps grasping at your ankles. Pulling you down and under into the darkness until there’s… I don’t even know what there is down there, it’s inarticulable. It’s just everything and nothing, solipsism and empathy and imagination and insecurities.

I think I got distracted here. Autumn I love, but I don’t like what it’s done to my life. To realise that one of the few people who might be, in some regard, even mildly responsible for your wellbeing, is in fact, a really rather fragile individual is pretty disturbing. I don’t like looking after the sick, it makes me sick too. It makes things hard and it ties you down, and I’m afraid of being tied up. I like the freedom to flake, the freedom to bounce, because if you don’t care about showing up, no one cares if you don’t. Yeah it’s a two way streak and it builds resentment, but hey, if it stops me from throwing up in the sink every other night with panic… I’m not gonna stop it.

Bad Autumn, weird Autumn, I am too a fucked up series of seasons that change. I’m spring, summer, autumn and winter, though my patterns of change are inconsistent. They’re striking and sudden and rarely make rhythm. What are you feeling today, the cold bite of winter, where you’re a little short angry and depressed. Or maybe spring today, I’m hot and bothered, and anxious and eager. Just a ball of unfocused yellow messy energy. I’m bipolar.

I hate it mostly, I never have one stage, I never have one calm moment. Everything is always the best or the worst. There’s no middle ground. When I fall in love it’s everything, the world the movement the universe it’s all love. When I fall out of love it’s nothing, it’s nada and it’s like it was never even there. It’s that extreme with everything, and I don’t have a balance. I try, I swallow pills, and attempt to meditate. I sit crossed legged on the floor of my room. Though I mostly end up drinking from a hip flask, listening to bad punk rock and staring at the ceiling.

fuck dude. fuck.