Thursday, April 30, 2015

I Will Smack You in the Forehead

It’s been a long time since the last time I updated this god forsaken blog. That’s unfortunate, because all my pages link to it. I imagine a lot of people think I’m dead if they aren’t on my Facebook. Well, I can’t be held responsible for that, I guess. Personal responsibility is for losers, right? Millennial represent. This will be an update more than anything. It will be funny, I suppose, but I’m also going to take you to some of the darkest places I’ve ever been simply because I no longer wish to be there alone. I’m tired of putting these updates on Facebook, because they get lost in the Disney princess quizzes and drama queens talking about how drama-free they are. Sometimes I wish I had a button to make everyone punch themselves in the face for my entertainment to make up for some of the absolute motherfucking bullshit they post on Facebook. Seriously.

So the biggest development is that I have Colitis. Let me tell you, I know you’re sick of hearing me talk about this, but this is my blog. When you have a disease like this, the rest of your life gets dialed down while the symptoms are happening. You spend your days either trying not to shit yourself in public or trying not to hurt yourself shitting. Or both. I’m going to the doctor as soon as this flare stops because I have insurance for the first time since I turned nineteen. I’m a little apprehensive about what the treatment might be, because it’s all invasive. I’m not afraid of doctors anymore, though. During the initial flare in August, I lost that fear. I lost a lot of fears. Fear of being nearly naked in public. Fear of IV needles. Fear of doctors. Fear of death at one point. I thought I was dying. I also stopped being afraid to cry in front of people. I cried a lot, probably more than I’ve ever cried in my life. Anyway, back to treatment. The best case scenario is a series of prescriptions that prolong the remission period. I don’t know if they suppress symptoms when they happen. I certainly hope so. The other options involve surgery and a colostomy bag, whether temporarily or for the rest of my life. Walk it off, right? I’m overreacting.

Listen, I reserve the right to be an emo teenager on my blog. I can see why people kill themselves. I sympathize, seeing that this is going to be a lifelong life wrecker. I mean, sure, I’ll have a life, but so many things are going to have to change. It’s going to be like the feeling of having braces. You can pretend you feel fine, but then you have to go get them tightened and suddenly you’re on the soup and pudding diet again. It’s always there, waiting to fuck everything up. It’s going to be a life of checking to make sure every place I go has a restroom, carrying butt wipes, maybe even wearing adult diapers. I’m not exaggerating. I’m not being dramatic. I’m being realistic in a world where we’re told to look at the bright side. Show me the god damned bright side and I’ll look at it. “Hey, you might shit yourself at any second and spend the night throwing gross amounts of mucus, which makes you vomit more, but at least you’re alive!” Oh yes. At least there’s that.
Before everyone calls me an ambulance, I have no plans to kill myself, so shut up. First of all, if I kill myself, no one is going to write for me. I don’t trust any of you fucks to finish my stories or ghost write new ones. If that’s what it takes for me to cling to this wretched piece of shit life and subject myself to it, I guess it is what it is.

That’s all for that part.

The next development has involved my sudden inability to sugarcoat just about anything. It physically hurts me to do it. A lot of you have discovered that you don’t like honest me, and I am taking to this blog to tell you that you can take the old me and use him as a dildo if you like him so much, because he’s dead. Meme joke. If you’ve been glued to Facebook, you get it. Ashes dildo. You get it. I don’t tell people they’re correct or talented or pretty anymore unless they are. Some people are not correct or talented or pretty. They’re racist, talentless, ugly troll faced bastards and hobags who need a good, square punch in their hostile little faces. Writers, for instance. I can tell I’m going to hate someone’s writing by how talented they think they are. I’m usually right. Facebook friends: Those of you who try to insert yourself and your uninformed opinions into my timeline are very lucky I’ve been busy trying not to die, because I will soon be well enough to drive you into the ground like a tent spike. There will be no warning. I will do it in front of your friends, parents, and then I’ll rent billboard space and plaster it all over the country so that everyone can see what a moron you were for thinking you had anything constructive to add to the conversation.

Third development: My writing has taken a very strange turn. I’ve got nothing to post this month, and this marks a division between old and new. I suggest you get ready for something new. I’m done fucking around.

As a final note, I love you all, and I wish nothing but sprinkles upon your foreheads and dancing kittens upon your desks. I just want you to stop touching me and asking why I look so pale. I get it, I’m dying. We’re all dying. You’re dying too. I don’t go around asking you why you look so healthy.

I also want to say that I have found a family in my roommates Libby and Ethan Klotz. They’re my friends. You can’t have them. Also, I’ve found all the other Meryl Streeps of writing by going to Cuplets in Muncie once a month (when I can make it). Such a talented bunch of poets. You guys are awesome.

Stop looking at me. Get out of here.