New Castle People Make Me Want to Break My Own Legs and Dissolve into Liquid Sludge

New Castle. New. Fucking. Castle. Oh my dear Doritos, where to begin? Okay, let’s start by imagining someone screaming into a megaphone. Not words, just actual screaming. That’s how I feel.

New Castle people are going to be the end of me. Let’s hit three key areas, all of which I experienced today: Driving, grocery shopping, parking. If I had a red button to clear this town of most of its residents, I’d hit it over and over and over and over and over and over just to make sure they didn’t come back once I fired them out of canons toward the horizon.

I want to start with grocery shopping, because the other two can be lumped together and must be saved until the end. I went to Aldi to get four items. I kid you not, every time I needed to turn around, go around a corner, or move in any way, there was a person in my way. One guy turned to look at me and stared RIGHT IN MY EYES for an uncomfortable period of time. And he DID NOT MOVE. So after traversing the entire store nine times just trying to find a clear path to the register, I was stuck behind Turd Bun, a lady about mid-twenties who had apparently missed the memo that bun should not look like a big, lumpy turd someone pooped out into a toilet, like she just grabbed it and plopped it down vertically on her head. Turd Bun had no idea how a checkout lane worked. I had my items on the conveyer belt behind an order divider. She decided to hand the cashier one item at a time, wait until it was scanned and then hand her another. THIS BITCH HAD A FULL CART. The top basket was full, there were items below, and there was a screaming babybeast in the seat. I had to keep shoving my items back further to keep them from going up to where she stood, so eventually I just put them back in my cart. Turd Bun eventually was finished with her game of sodomizing everyone around her with the 2x4 of inconvenience and had apparently been satisfied at the results, but now she only had $100 on her and her total was much more than that. UMUGUD EYE HAV 2 GO OWT 2 MAI KAR #notenufmoni

God damn. So now it was my turn. I’m putting my items back on the belt and the moron behind me RAMS HIS MOTHERFUCKING CART UP AND OVER MY HAND. He doesn’t apologize, and in fact he looks at me like “how dare you.” YES. HOW DARE I. I got out of there, at this point spewing some pretty colorful language with little regard to babies and old people in earshot. I get home and park in front of the house as always, and as I’m unloading the groceries, this huge commercial construction truck comes screaming around the corner and skids almost sideways to a stop in front of my van. The street is narrow and there is parking on both sides, and another car just happens to have parked across the street from me. So no, this asshole isn’t going to fit. Rather than take the next road down, he sits there and honks at me, then he turns and peels down an alley, throwing gravel and dust up behind him.

Okay. So, I’m done interacting with New Castle people save for the people who live in and are invited to the house I live in. I am done with the rude, stupid, social awkward, uneducated people that populate this town from one end of Highway 3 to the other. I am going to start teaching a class for them called “how to live life without being a motherfucking moron,” and it will be MANDATORY.

A Door Shut from Your Side is a Door Locked from Mine (Good Riddance)

This will be short, because I have to work in the morning. I want to say that while some of my peers are determined to remain teenagers their whole lives, living vicariously through Tumblr and demanding every whim that enters their mind (endless amounts of attention and affirmation, for example), I am struggling with my identity at the moment. I am no longer a teenager, finally, but I am far from being an adult.

I don't know. This person knows who they are, and I'm no longer willing to pretend it doesn't bother me. Open letter time.

In the past year, you have become one of the single most hateful, bile-filled, social justice warrioring lunatics I have ever known. I don't mean lunacy as in making fun of your mental issues or emotional trauma, I mean you go after every motherfucking flaw you see in me. I'm racist, sexist, I whitewash my stories. Etc. I don't talk about the things you want to talk about.

Well, you blocked me. I hope that brings you some kind of solace. As for myself, I'm finally free. The person I was friends with was never coming back and the monster who replaced her was starting to dig the claws in for more blood, and I was nearly bled out. I am not sorry for what I said, only for the reason I had to say it.

I wish you were still my friend. Not you now, you then. You made me feel like such a bad person. I'm not changing, and you can go to hell.

#candor

Fuck your hashtags and your demands and your self-righteous dick-grade posts about the people in your life. You don't know anyone. We're all human, just like you. We have lives outside of Skype and Facebook and maybe when I'm working on school, writing, and sleep-deprived from working ten hours, I have NOT ONE SINGLE BASKET OF FUCKS TO GIVE ABOUT HOW AWFUL YOU THINK I AM FOR NOT COMING RIGHT OUT AND SAYING ONE OF MY GOD DAMNED STORY CHARACTERS IS NON-WHITE. My readers have brains. They're not stupid. They don't need that information unless that's what the story is about, and I'm not about to insult them by bashing the character's physical traits into their skulls when all they want is to see what happens next.

I do not enter the void of the internet solely to tell you that yes, we're still friends (obviously, now) or make small talk because after ripping me to bleeding fucking shreds about the use of the term "Mary Sue" you're convinced that no topic is safe to talk to ME about because everything makes ME mad. Well, that's just swell. I suppose I can be the villain if that's what villains do: repair their wounds in a corner and wait for the asshole to come back over the Skype hill for the next round. I've gotten good at that.

I did not sign up for this.

How dare you.

Good riddance, and good luck. I wish you the same respect you showed me in the end, which varies depending on whether or not you can see anyone else's point of view.

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.