There it is, the place where I spend my final moments inside of macabre daydreams. I drive past the bridge overlaying the most disgusting river every day. All it would require of me to leap and consequently drown is a bad day and a bit of courage. Practically nobody is around in this small town, and in the middle of the night, it is a virtual ghost town. Lord, grant me the worst day imaginable, for it might be a great day for others, not that they would enjoy my departure, although maybe some would, but that come hell or high water, the damage being done to others would finally cease. Amen. Some prayer, that, eh? I have always felt that I should have been Canadian; however, I am obviously not one because I was not born there, and I can identify as Canadian all I want, but that does not make it so. Perhaps something for the “highly educated” to consider; the irony that somehow this is the novel concept that has escaped them. An oddly timed joke, all things considered, as I just detailed the way I would leave this place, but that’s my point, I suppose. This world and all its inhabitants are a joke – a joke that I do not wish to be a part of. Ah, that reminds me. The bridge – an ominously pleasant reminder that I could roll credits in an instant.
This is not a threat, one of those “letters,” a cry for help, a ploy for attention – none of those. For me to take the dichotomous plunge, that is to say, concomitantly sinister and gratifying; it would be a necessity to have the courage of my convictions, which I do not have. Unfortunately, there are enough people who love me that would be pained if I possessed the willpower to carry out what I’ve suggested. Lord, please let the people who love me turn heel on me so that I would no longer be burdened by what they might feel if I leaped. Amen. I’ll never do it. Well, let us not use the word never. A wise, old man informed me that the word never is not a word that we get to use – that it is reserved for God Himself. The relief of the possibility to remain ever so slightly on the table. What have I done, besides simply exist, that is deserving of their love anyway? They must be holding onto the potential version of me, this idea of what I could have been, intentionally blotting out the reality that what could have been can no longer be, that this train had been derailed long ago. Perhaps it is my fault why they clutch on to their ideas of me by way of giving glimpses of who they thought I was, but those flashes in the pan are about as fake as my suicide plot. Exactly what is one supposed to do when the point of no return has been crossed? Continue to be a participant in the Creator’s game of “The Sims?” The game is over, and it was lost. Hanging on because “everything happens on God’s time” is similar to a Quarterback continuing to throw passes to nobody – in an empty stadium – long after his team lost the game, wondering why and getting frustrated that he is not scoring touchdowns. Speaking of “God’s time,” I’m not disputing that everything does, indeed, happen on His time, but why is it that His time is never soon? It is never soon, it is never tomorrow, and it is certainly never now. God’s time is always “maybe some other time,” which is what someone says to you when they want nothing to do with you. Come to think of it, when He continuously says that to me, He is the only One operating within any sort of logical framework.
I’ve never been one to blame others for my shortcomings. My troubles are of my own making, and if there is anything in this that is true, it is that. Depending on what you believe, I suppose, because it’s always “part of God’s plan” until God’s plan begins to suck shit, then it’s my fault. The paradox here is that I believe in God while simultaneously accepting that my discontent is a result of constant wrongdoing on my part. Any character defect or character trait that I possess is God-given; and, therefore good, or so I’ve read, so the hurt and damage that I have inflicted upon others is whose fault again? It wasn’t as if I chose these character defects or traits; if I were able to choose, obviously, I would be without flaws. I’d look like Channing Tatum and be as funny as Patrice O’Neal. Instead, I look like Carrot Top and am about as entertaining as a brick wall. I guess I finally understand the common trope that homosexuals frequently trot out – “You think I chose to be this way!?” No, I don’t believe you did, but neither did anybody else. You think I like doing this – that I enjoy leaving a path of destruction and chaos wherever I go and leaving the remnants for other people to clean up? It’s not something I enjoy; how could it be? It is an aspect of myself that I find detestable, which makes hurling myself off that small-town bridge into the most revolting of waters all the more sensible. “Do something about it then!” screams the reader. You know what, reader? If people could, they would. Has it not occurred to you that people are doing their best with what they have been given but that some people’s best is equivalent to another’s worst?
“You can’t always get what you want,” sing the Stones. Wouldn’t that be grand if receiving what you wanted was something that just didn’t always happen? I can live with not always getting what I want, but God sings a different version than the one of the Rolling Stones. God’s rendition is something to the effect of, “You’ll never, ever, get what you want,” and then proceeds to tell me to be patient. Even in the rare circumstance where He does grant me whatever it is that I’ve asked for, it turns out to be a catastrophic event because that’s God’s will, and that’s God’s time. The reader, of course, says, “maybe you only think you know what you want; maybe He is giving you what you need, and you have yet to realize that.” A fair enough point, but I can tell you what I don’t want, and it’s not this. What a peculiar game He plays! Why gift somebody the aptly termed “God-given gift” only to deprive one of any benefit or reward that may come from it? No, not just material or financial benefits or rewards, although those things would be nice, but does not an actor need an audience? At least eyes? Does not a musician need listeners? At least ears? Is God’s narrative for my life the kind where acknowledgment or recognition comes only after I leap? Oh, gee, thanks for that. The male lead spends the duration of the movie aspiring for the female lead’s love; she falls in love with him at last but right before he finds out, he dies. Great movie, Almighty One. That’s fine if God’s narrative for me is something along those lines, but it would be nice to know that so at least I know there is a purpose to the gift You’ve given me. He’ll let me know on His time, though, which is maybe some other time. “But, beloved, be not ignorant of this one thing, that one day is with the Lord as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day.” Okay, Simon Peter, but unless Elon Musk invents the immortality chip, I don’t believe I’ll make it to year one thousand to witness the fruits of any labor. It’s possible that I do not understand that passage, but I thought the joke might be funny, so I am choosing to leave it in, and I’ll deal with some 53-year-old dickhead with a silhouette profile picture lecturing me on it later.
I don’t hate God – at all. I love God. A part of me wants to curse His name in this, but there is something intrinsic in me that will not allow me to do that. This, I believe, is an illustration that I do love Him, but that I have logical grievances toward this stupid game that He’s having us (or me) play. The reader thinks to themselves that the author is a “pick me boy,” and the reader is correct. That is precisely what I’m saying. I’m saying to the Creator Himself to pick me, and if You aren’t going to pick me, then I do not want to play. With this in mind, and I am well aware that I am judging, He seems to choose some real fucking winners, doesn’t He? “An intelligent man of the nineteenth century can’t seriously make himself into anything and that only a fool can succeed in making himself into something.” As true now as it was then. Surely, I would be better off being a complete moron, shucking and jiving for red notifications from people telling me that they appreciate my unproductive contributions to society.
Ah, the hypocrisy. Is that not what I am doing myself? Shucking and jiving for likes? Of course, it is, but nobody will be able to convince me that twenty seconds of choreography is more important than any piece of literature ever written. Not even one, not even Mein Kampf. Why is “EBoy42069” (nice) able to extract everything he could possibly dream of out of this game? I don’t suspect he is deeply ensconced in the Word, prayer, or meditation between his stupid fucking dances. Lord, grant me the ability and willingness to learn whatever new trend arises so that I may follow in the footsteps of the Chosen One, EBoy42069. Amen. I’ve never once read a comment in response to a TikTok video that read, “Wow. I was really close to the edge. I was about to leap off of the small-town bridge, but that move you hit right as the sick-ass beat dropped saved my freaking life! Thank you so much for pulling me out of the pit.” “If ever you are disturbed, you are hating, judging, or playing God,” said the wise, old man. Look at me; heavily engaged in all three. Are you about to tell me, however, that there is not a grain of logic in this hatred or in this judgment? Is there not logic in that, as it stands at this moment, the game God is playing is a ridiculous one, but that it may change on His time – maybe some other time?
All I am positing is that while mental suicide is but a few doors down from the physical, which, admittedly, has me quite fearful, there is logic in jumping off. No, I shall never do it, or at least I do not believe I ever will, as that word has been banned from my vocabulary, but I have the ability to take myself to the ledge – reasonably. Besides, I’m more than likely too spiteful to jump. If I were ever to jump, that would mean “they” win; it most definitely means “the lowest power” wins, and fuck both of them. A miserable existence, you might say, that living to win is not what keeps one alive, but living so that others may not, does…. To be continued.