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.
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