The Mind From a Dark Room Pt. 1 – “The Pick Me Boy” – wysb.me (whatsyourstorybro.com)
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 all have the ability to reasonably take themselves to the ledge. Besides, I’m more than likely too spiteful to jump. If I were to ever 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, but preventing the undeserving is such a noble cause! Oh, what a hero I am! With regard to the three things to avoid at all costs – hating, judging, and playing God, in this case, it would appear that I am taking on the role of God, but if He isn’t going to do his job, somebody must! Yes, I hear you; it is a peculiar position to delegate to myself as, after all, I began this by illustrating to you all my “plot,” but it looks as though I’ve fallen “victim” to the mindset of the isolated. Furthermore, who exactly have I deterred from success anyway? God’s will cannot and will never be impeded, but that does not mean that I cannot die trying. Is this not the hypocratic reason why I loathe the members of “cancel culture?” Are they not doing what I wish to do but on the other end of the spectrum? Ah, yes, there it is, isn’t it? The reason I hate those types of people is because I am them – because they are playing God themselves, but they just aren’t doing a good enough fucking job, for it is I that should determine who lives and who dies, who fails and who succeeds, even who falls in love with who, from right here behind a screen, no less!
I was granted my opportunity for “true love” amidst a time I was a slave to alcohol. Once again, God’s plan. Par for the course, perhaps. The greatest of writers seemingly spend the duration of their lives writing in solitude, detailing the injustices done to them by women, never branching outside of those lonely four walls, dying alone, and having their work acknowledged only after the lattermost inevitability. It’s a deplorable life in the end, isn’t it? Using the previous illustration, it sounds as if we may need to bring a blacklight into the rooms where these “strokes” of geniuses were created, as though we were checking into a cheap hotel. Tears and, well, other bodily fluids aplenty in the confines of the “genius’” dwelling place. Allow me to digress; I was granted my opportunity for love. My one, single opportunity. How is it that one could expect to be granted more than that – to be awarded several options, as in plural? No, we are granted but one shot, and if we don’t take that shot, we are destined to either live and die alone or settle with somebody else, thinking about what might have been. There is no love that transcends the utmost love, for that could be considered a secondary love, which is no love at all. Alas, I was gifted my chance at love and failed to take it. As soon as I want to curse God for that, I remember the alleged path He has me on and am reminded that His mastery has given the writer something to write. Oh, thank you so much, Father! Thank you for givething and takething away, that I may now see the love of my life cuddled up with somebody else and am permitted the possibility of creating literary brilliance out of it! Oh, thank you, thank you! A thought of the bridge enters the mind. Why not? “Be fruitful and multiply,” says the Almighty. At my age, not only would any newfound love be a nonexistent secondary love, but moreover, it would be pathetic. Old love is beautiful love if it starts young. Besides, the available women at my age have been attempting to convince themselves that relationships, marriage, and families aren’t worth the trouble – that it is somehow better to scoff at the women who have achieved what they have not, by themselves, of course, while insisting to their Tinder date that “the dog eventually calms down once he gets to know you.” No, he doesn’t, Sheri. Just put the fucking dog in the other room and have your meaningless sex. The clock is ticking on them anyhow, so why bother? Maybe there is still time to be fruitful, but there is certainly less time to multiply, which leaves us with the younger women. I suppose they are dumb enough to be persuaded that becoming involved with a semi-middle-aged “writer,” otherwise known as unemployed, could really “be something,” but you’ll find me dead before I pretend to enjoy my time with one of them as they take pictures of their meal. Oh, but let us not forget that if the younger woman does have any sort of intellectual ambition, I now have the luxury of being lectured on things I need to “unlearn” and viewpoints passed down to her by agenda-ridden professors. Does not the bridge sound ever more appealing?
What does it matter anyway? This is just hating; this has nothing to do with me. My primary love was the only love, and there shall never be another. It is as if I am under a kind of lifetime “Divine punishment,” destined to be alone after squandering His plan, after treating one of His angels so poorly. You laugh at such a sentiment, but is it so far-fetched? Are you not the same person that continuously misuses the word “karma,” stating that “what goes around comes around” and believes that to be so? Then, in this case, what exactly is the difference? Some days, I wonder how I would respond if, let us call her “Ashley,” were ever to return. If, by some longshot, she found it in her to forgive me for my misdeeds, would I accept her forgiveness and “take her back?” Oh, how I long for the day! I would accept Ashley back within a second, and never would I treat her the way I did before! Do you think I care about what or who she has been doing in the years we have been apart? Of course not! How could I care!? Taking into account my prior behavior, does she not deserve to explore, to play the field, to see if another one out there is her primary love and not I? Of course, she does, and if she ever reappeared to me to inform me that, no, there is no primary love but me, I would take her by the hand and never let her go again. She is, or was, the “one” that people speak about. The one who saw me at my worst and loved me despite it, the one who knew my exact thoughts at any given moment, the one who detected my mood or feelings by a simple glance, the one who believed that I could do what I set out to do, although perhaps a misguided belief, but a belief, nonetheless. For me, there is either “Ashley” or there is nobody, as so obviously determined by God Himself.
Who the hell am I kidding, reader!? Did you actually believe any of that fairytale, naïve nonsense!? Well, you’d be just as stupid as my illustration of the young woman that I have painted with such a broad brush! What kind of man would I be if I were to just accept this woman back into my life upon her immediate request, after flaunting to the entire world how she has moved on and found somebody else, somebody better than me!? Aside from that, this is a piece dedicated to the lowest form of honesty anyhow, so what is the truth about this alleged primary love? Is not the truth that if she was, indeed, my primary love, that I would not have acted so heinously to begin with? Yes, of course, that is the truth. The nerve of me to ever claim such love! Do you know what people miss when they find themselves going through a divorce or breakup, reader? I’ve never missed specific people. Goodness, there are thousands of better people than whoever it is I’m fixated on at the time. I miss how easy it was; I miss, and my apologies, specific body parts. Are you going to judge me, reader? Tell me that sinister, egotistical, libido-driven thought never crossed your mind when he or she left! More often than not, that is what people miss, and the pain I feel when thinking about Ashley only exists due to her sleeping with somebody else, sure, somebody who she may love, but more importantly, that I have nobody. The ego is a baffling entity, reader. It would be just like me to receive everything I’ve ever asked for only to piss it away, which, is what I would do if she were to ever show up at my doorstep. How could she be so stupid to do that – to subject herself to a relationship that already has a permanent wedge stabbed into it? Do you know, reader, that I know of a single relationship that has no infidelity inside of it whatsoever, just a single one, and I envy that relationship to this day? I never want to be involved in a relationship or marriage with cheating lodged into it forever, and I have tarnished that primary love for eternity, alas, my Divine punishment. Well, what else am I supposed to do, reader? You tell me. What is one supposed to do with the reality that they are at fault for the predicament they are in? This mindset, this line of thinking that I never loved her to begin with, that I only miss the more hedonistic aspect of a relationship, must prevail, or else I take one step closer to the ledge of that Godforsaken bridge. As soon as I want to curse God for this, I am reminded that, still, by His grace, He has given me everything that I’ve ever wanted – the ability to write and talk shit – my God-given gifts. Why, thank you, Father God! That’s what I am left with today, a pen (or keyboard) and resentment. I’ve been told resentment takes more people out than any other emotion, which I believe to be the case, but shockingly enough, that’s what keeps me going – the hope that one day that motherfucker gets hit by a bus. Ah, yes, there are days where Greyhound survived as my Higher Power! “Dear, Greyhound, please let today be the day you ruin the relationship that isn’t meant to be, for it is I that decides who gets to be with who! Amen!” It has nothing to do with him, really, as I would feel this way toward anybody that she found, but he is guilty by association regardless.
There was a time when I used to make fun of people for wanting to kill themselves after the person they loved left them. As a matter of fact, that time is still now, and even though I understand it, I still cringe as I write it. “Whiskey Lullaby” makes me want to vomit. “Grow a set and find another one,” I think to myself; however, I do understand it. After all, if you’ve blown the opportunity granted to you by God, what is left to do? The man says, “there are plenty of fish in the sea, my friend.” Ah, yes, as if you get to meet the majority of the fish. It dawns on me that this man hasn’t done much fishing. No fisherman speaks about the day when they caught one-hundred fish; no, they perpetually speak about the day when they caught the fish – that fish, that one fish, and how they may never catch a fish like that ever again. Relax, internet, I am not comparing the love of your life to a fish; it’s just an analogy. I don’t need your help in being canceled after disparaging women younger and older than I am, so virtually, all of them. If I’m going to get canceled, you could at least let it happen organically. Anyway, it is the predominant factor in life, is it not? Finding somebody and starting a family with them, and when that blows up in our face, by our own accord, *sigh*, well, the bridge becomes all the more plausible, doesn’t it? To be continued..
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