When they commit suicide – Chapter 2

Right now I’m in a dentist’s office waiting to be called in. I’m on the subway and my feet hurt. I’m in the kitchen; Mother is cooking spaghetti. My father is tossing my toys out the window. I’m kissing Pam Withers under a tree. I’m looking up girl names in the Internet. I’m in the waiting room of a hospital. I’m falling from the third floor. I’m watching her kill herself. I’m taking my first step.  I’m in the library being lectured by my father about conspiracies and government spies.

My Father, he used to say that geniuses always thought there was someone after them. They thought every government satellite was programmed to track their movements. They thought their food was poisoned, their house bugged and their friends bribed. They thought someone was always following them.

Watching

Listening

Waiting

My father, he was a genius.

My father was always being followed. He could hear their steps behind us. He could hear the soft electronic buzz of the bugs in our living room. He could feel the satellite moving with him. He had the waitress try the food before him. He gave my mother strict directions on which route to take to and from school in the morning. He never used a cellphone, a computer, or a GPS.

You wanna hear something good? The guy from that movie, John Nash, he was a genius; A real genius. He won a nobel prize and everything. He thought everybody who wore a red tie was part of a communist conspiracy against him. This writer chick, Virginia Woolf, she heard birds talking to her in greek. Her mother rose up from the grave and stalked her. Her husband and sister were always around her.

Watching

Listening

Waiting

All the people you hold as brilliant were actually bat-shit crazy.

Let’s think about that the next time we solve an equation.

Me, playing games in my room, my father comes in. He is drenched in sweat. Not hot sweat, like the kind you get after running ten miles, but cold sweat; Nervous sweat. He looks at me. His pupils are dilated. What have I been doing, he says. Playing, I say. He asks, Do I work for them. He asks, Where am I hiding the bugs. Have I been paid. Have I been brainwashed. No, I answer. No No No. No dad. What are you talking about.

My Father, he was a genius.

My Father, he rips the toy cars from my hands. Where is it, he asks. Where is it. Where is it.

My Father, he starts throwing my toys out the window. My Optimus Prime. My tiny Ford Mustang. G.I. Joe parachutes to the freshly mowed lawn below my bedroom window. There goes my Buzz Lightyear with collapsible wings. My Game Boy. All the time yelling, where is it. Where is it.

My mother, she comes running. Her hands drenched in Barbecue sauce, or sweet-and-sour sauce, I can’t tell. She starts yelling. What are you doing, she yells. What in hell’s name are you doing. My Father, his face red with rage and drenched in confusion sweat, he yells I’m one of them. I’m one of them.

Watching

Listening

Waiting

His own son.

One of them.

All the people you hold as brilliant are actually bat-shit crazy.

Completely fucking crazy.

It’s about this time that my mother tries to hold my father down. All the time yelling. Fighting. My father, he doesn’t calm down. If what’s coming out of my mother’s nose is blood or barbecue sauce, I can’t tell. My father, still holding my lego sword, he looks like a warrior. My mother looks like a beast. Across the floor lie my He-man action figures. My retractable light-saber.

It’s about this time that my father appears to come back to reality. My mother on the floor. Blood or sauce dripping from her nose. From the corner of her mouth. My father, drenched in cold sweat. His hands still trembling from the adrenaline. His eyes back to normal. He looks at my mother looking at me looking at him.

This is the moment I choose to start crying.

My Smiley Face Is Crying. :…)

It doesn’t take a genius to  notice that the moment I expressed some kind of interest towards you, you lost absolutely all interest towards me. I guess I got excited way too soon. I don’t mean to sound all Sherlock Holmish, but the way you talk was very different before I even said anything. I can just feel the rejection coming, like a looming guillotine. Like a cloud looming over me all the time. Watching. Waiting. It seems to have cleared sometimes, but soon enough there it is again. Big. Black. Slowly but Surely Reappearing. This may be just what the doctor ordered. Another case of friend-zoning, as they call it. Another case of let’s just be friends. Is that the tenth already? The twenieth? Maybe we should have a party or something. Get Drunk and smoke some Mary Jane. We’ll print out big signs and invite all our friends. This is not a comedy or a tragedy anymore. This is a roller coaster ride filled with emotional climaxes. Will she say no? Tune in next week to find out that…YES!!! SHE SAYS NO!!! It’s such bad television. There are no surprises. It’s all too predictable. Boy meets girl. Boy gets interested in girl. Boy tells girl. Girl rejects him. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat. Change Girls. Repeat. Don’t change girls. Repeat. I should really have a scoreboard in my room. Something like “20 days with no depression attacks”. Right now it would say “Fifteen days without depression attacks, oh no wait, cancel that, yeah make it zero days again”. Running my own little corporation, all inside my room. My own little employees, inside my head. Every single one of them depressed.

EVERYBODY READY TO FUCK OFF?!!! OK!!!

EVERYBODY FUCK OFFF!!!

When They Commit Suicide – Chapter 1

Is this thing on?

Can anyone tell me if this thing is on?

I don’t know if this thing is on. It should have a little red light around here somewhere that tells you when it is on. Is it recording? You listening?

You wanna hear something good? The reason you never got to visit any electronics factory when you were a kid is because all the big companies have their manufacturers in Asia. Nobody over here wants to do that kind of job without charging a pretty penny, so they keep their factories where people don’t complain. You would think after saving all that money they would at least put a little red light to tell you when you’re recording.

I don’t even know if they’ll actually deliver this to you, but if you’re listening, this is my last gift to you. This is my life, recorded on a tiny machine made in some god forsaken town somewhere in China. Made in China, like the country wasn’t big enough to put another kind of clue to where exactly this piece of shit was made.

You wanna hear something good? When they sentence you to death they actually ask you if there’s anything you’d like to do before they off you. Some guy before me asked for some paper and pencils to write, but they told him pencils could be used as potential weapons so he didn’t get anything. Another guy asked to be given a book he had been reading before he was sentenced. I asked for something to record my voice in, and here I am.

You wanna hear something good? You also get a last meal of whatever you want within 40 bucks. Apparently it’s some kind of very old tradition in prisons. Like, John Wayne Gacy asked for a dozen deep-fried shrimp, a bucket of original recipe chicken from KFC, French fries, and a pound of strawberries. Some Nazi guy in Israel asked for a bottle of Israeli Wine. Ted Bundy declined and was given the traditional items: steak, eggs, hash browns, toast, milk, coffee, juice, butter, and jelly.

When they asked me, I couldn’t think of anything. I asked for a dozen Dunkin Donuts and a bottle of sweet tea. I’ve already eaten all of it just so I don’t have to interrupt the tape to continue eating. I may still pause it to use the can or something. Not for long, just a few minutes.

Is this thing on?

If you’re listening, you may hear a lot of echo in the recording. That’s because my cell is small. Maybe I should have asked for a good bed or a radio to listen to music. Business before pleasure, I guess. I have the whole ward to myself, so I am sure no one apart from me and you will hear this. Of course, if they do deliver this they will probably listen to it first. Let them, there’s nothing here they don’t know already.

You wanna hear something good? This chick, Aileen Wuornos, she killed six men . There’s a movie based on her life and everything.  Really good movie, the main actress won an Oscar or something. She ordered a hamburger from the prison cafeteria. A hamburger, some fries and a cup of coffee. Talk about making your last meal go to waste. I guess I am not really one to talk. This other guy, Gary Gilmore, he killed two dudes and then demanded to be executed for it. He asked for a hamburger, baked potato and three shots of whisky. Gives a whole new meaning to the idea of “Free Food” doesn’t it?

You wanna hear something good? Have you heard of the Lethal Injection? It’s one of the things they kill bad people with. The gist of it is, it puts you to sleep and then stops your heart and lungs. You don’t survive. You can’t survive. It just works. This guy, Rommell Broom, he was the first guy to have his execution postponed after the prison guys failed to maintain an IV through which they could administer the injection.

The other thing they might do is called electrocution, and the name pretty much explains it. It uses the famous electric chair, which is made of wood so the ground does not get all fucked up from the shock. The gist of it is, they tie you up and put electrodes in your body. Then they really let that electricity do wonders with your nervous system. This guy, Willie Francis, he was the first person to survive the electric chair after a drunken prison guard had fucked up the set up of the chair. Basically this guy was tied up nice and all and was electrocuted and all, but he didn’t die. He just sat there in some immense kind of pain none of us is really able to explain since we’ve never actually felt it. He used to read the paper a lot and write stuff on his cell walls. Most of us do too.

You wanna hear something good? The electric chair was actually invented by some guys working under Thomas Edison. The idea came from a dentist, some guy from a committee assigned with the task of developing a new way to kill people. The new method was set to replace hanging which at the time was considered inhumane. Two guys were then hired by brilliant Mr. Edison to actually make the electric chair. This guy, Harold P. Brown, he wanted to use Alternating Current in the chair after his magnificent teacher, Mr. Edison, had told him it was more lethal than Direct Current.

You wanna hear something good? Something really good? These two guys, Brown and that other guy, they proved Alternate Current was more dangerous than Direct Current by publicly killing animals by running AC through their bodies. The story is, they convinced the committee. Let’s think about that the next time we use a light bulb.

They can go to hell if they think I’m gonna sit in that electric chair. Edison can go fuck himself in his grave for all I care. I’m getting a Lethal Injection. That at least will give the guys in the execution chamber something challenging to do. I have really thin veins.

Is this thing on?

I’ve already wasted precious minutes of tape with my history lesson.

Can you hear me?

If you’re listening, this is the story of my life, the way I always wanted it to be told. This is me. This is me telling it the way I remember it, be it the truth or not.

So

Let me start with the beginning.

Not at the beginning of everything, but at the true beginning, when things really started.

So

Is this thing on?

This is everything I’ve ever wanted to say

So

Let’s start.

Father forgive me.

A Short History Of Loss

It’s been said that people are afraid of change. Change constitutes most of our lives and, as much as we all want to live inside the monotony of a routine-filled life, we all have to learn to cope with it sooner or later. Loss is a kind of change, and a heavy one at that. Loss could be losing a book or a favorite CD. Loss can be misplacing a pencil or, in the worst of cases, the loss of a loved one.

At the beginning, when you experience loss, it’s like being hit by a speeding truck that has just turned visible while hitting you. You realize something that’s supposed to be there is not there anymore. It confuses you. Sometimes it makes you angry. You start blaming people for it. If you cared enough then you will repeat in your head  the circumstances leading to the loss so many times that you will start feeling that you can actually change the past if you think about it hard enough. For months you will probably blame yourself for not acting when you should have.

Sometimes it takes time, but people do get over loss. After all the denial and the bargaining, the depression and the anger, you learn to deal with loss. What comes after is even worse than anything you had to put up with until then; The ghosts. I call ghosts to all those times you feel what you’ve lost is still there only to be hit by the same invisible truck time after time. It’s like trying to inhale air underwater. Ghosts can also manifest themselves as hallucinations, or mental conversations. You have to explain to them that they’re already gone, and you’ve already gone through so much pain and sadness to cope with the fact that they’re not there anymore, that you don’t really want to go over it again.

In defeating loss we become stronger and weaker at the same time. There is no easy way to cope with loss. Some of us never get over any of our losses and still have to deal with ghosts every night. In some twisted way, it defines who we are. It defines the way we act, and the way we treat the things and people that we can still count on. Still, it’s never fun to be hit with a truck.

True Love Theory

I have a bunch of theories. True Love Theory is one of them. Perfect Girl Theory is another one of them. They’re actually pretty stupid. I sometimes wonder if, when I’m older, I’ll look back on the time when i was writing this and wonder on just how silly this all is. Hell, i can do it now.

True Love Theory is basically the thought that two people have identical compatible wavelengths to the point that one can understand the other completely without words. This is true mostly for mothers. Some children develop an unbreakable mental bond with their mothers right from birth. However, this is not considered True Love Theory mostly because children co-exist in the same space as their mothers for more or less nine months and at birth, and True Love Theory relies heavily on coincidence. Coincidence that drives two people to meet randomly and immediately understand that they were made explicitly for that moment.

True Love Theory is not true, for example, when a guy is friend-zoned for a long time and at the end of the story ends up with that guy and they live very happily ever after. That is called Patient Love Theory and will be explained later. True Love Theory is also not true with very selfish people, since their wavelengths are much too difficult to find anywhere. True love Theory must exist in plane rides, coffee shops, music store counters, public parks and concerts.

True Love Theory states that True Love is infinite and undefeatable. It cannot be explained and therefore almost nobody has ever been able to describe exactly how it is formed or how it exists. True Love subjects are destined to die within minutes of each other. Not everybody can achieve True Love, since it’s not really up to the subject, but there is a number of people who are content with never find true love. Rock Stars for example.

True Love Theory is only a theory, it is not absolute truth. I still have not found enough evidence to support TLT, but I’m still searching. I have found, however, an overwhelming amount of evidence proving my theory wrong. That evidence has been compiled into other theories such as Impossible Love Theory, Inevitable Treason Theory and Indecisive Love Theory, all which will be explained further in other posts.

Busy Busy Busy

I’ve always had some kind of sick curiosity for funerals. I haven’t been to a lot of them, and in the normal sense that’s a good thing. I don’t really want anyone close to me dying just so I get to go to their funeral, but I still think there’s some magical tragedy involved in it. There’s something about remembering someone who’s not there anymore that just seems fantastically melancholic. Actually, I think I have just been to one funeral. One of my friend’s grandfather died. Although it was not at all like I figured my first funeral to be like. It wasn’t in a graveyard, but in a church, and there were so many people there. Just…so many people. You could tell he was someone important to the community. A choir sang requiems and they read aloud all the organizations he had been involved in. Then they put his ashes in the basement of the church, with his other loved ones I guess.

My dead relatives have all been cremated. Both my grandfathers have been cremated, and sine they lived far away I didn’t get to attend their funeral. I don’t really know if I would have wanted to. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to be cremated. I don’t care about space or coffin costs or anything like that. When the time comes I hope to be able to pay for my own funeral. I just want a small funeral with family and still living friends. Maybe even some food and a band playing. This connects nicely with my obsession to be different.