“There’s a man assigned to me
And he checks on my stability.
We discuss you every week.
Then I rinse and rinse, repeat.
And he charges by the tear,
’till I weep no more, strictly out of fear
That I can’t afford your love.
And the moon just burns above.”
Total Revenge – Say Anything
Max Bemis, the guy who wrote those lyrics, is officially bat-shit crazy. Once, the band had to cancel a tour because Bemis started harassing some kids at a restaurant and spilling a bowl of soup onto the floor, one spoonful at a time. I heard this song in a bonus CD that comes with “…Is a real boy” which is their first album. I think this is one of the most significant songs of my generation, and very few people know of it. Bemis was once described as “the new Bob Dylan”, I couldn’t agree more. I once mentioned that I wanted to be like Max Bemis. To write like him at least.
I don’t know if I have mentioned this, but I would love to have some kind of mental sickness. Paranoid Schizophrenia actually sounds very attractive. I have this strong need to be seen as a special case. Like a “One out of then people” kind of thing. To be completely able to turn my suffering into words in a satisfying way. Because no matter how much I write, I still have so much stuff inside.
I mean, it certainly looks like I’m writing the same things again and again and again. Things like how I’m feeling and this overwhelming feeling of sadness that I always seem to be carrying and this kind of invisible gun that I point at myself in the morning and that has not been removed like…ever. Maybe once, but the only result of that is that now I carry a bazooka.
Everyday I feel a little bit more hopeless. I feel slow and I really don’t want to get anywhere and if I do, I just sit there wondering exactly what the hell I am doing. Every now and then I catch a glimpse of somebody looking at me, and instead of getting excited I just get angry. I get angry because hope is for idiots. Hope of somebody taking interest in me has led me to a huge abyss of which I’m not sure if i will ever be able to get out of. Every little ray of hope that shines my way just blinds me a little bit more, and I’m down to one good eye.
If my poetry is ever revered as something even remotely good, I will probably be complete. For now it’s just like, “The Depressing Mind of Nikolas Murdock”. That’s actually not at all a bad title.
Happy Birthday! I haven’t seen you for so long I’m slowly forgetting who you are!
This only means there’s less time left before you die.
I don’t usually do what the internet tells me to do but today I was particularly bored. Happy birthday.
If I wasn’t a hypocrite I would tell you to go fuck yourself, congratulations on this special day.
Happy birthday, you back stabbing, girlfriend stealing, self absorbed son of a bitch.
At least your birthday’s not on christmas, because I’m pretty sure you’re the son of satan. Happy birthday, Beelzebub the second.
do us all a favor and please just die.
If I go to hell anytime soon
I’m guessing hell will be very much like this
Me, sitting on my bed, watching my computer
You, saying that you don’t want to be with me anymore.
If I go to hell anytime soon
I imagine that you’ll find out eventually
and my letters and pictures
will form a pile under your door
If I somehow find myself in hell tomorrow
It will take me a while to notice
and I’ll sit here thinking
It’s just another night
If the devil takes my soul today
and my body rests forever
and my soul dives head first
into darkness and pain
I won’t fight it
or question it
or try to escape
Hell is you
Hell is me
Hell is my everyday
I’m not feeling very good. Ok, when I write, I’m almost never feeling very good. Let’s start a disorganized list of things that have me in a particularly bad mood.
- I’m sick of remembering you when I’m driving because every car that I pass I hope it’s yours and every time my cellphone rings my mind think’s it’s a call from you and every place that I stop at I hope I somehow run into you and you see me and suddenly realize that you want to be with me so bad it actually physically hurts you.
- I’m sick of people hearing me recite the stuff I write and saying “Dammit man, you really loved that girl.” and me saying “Yeah, I guess I really did” and then having to put up with the uncomfortable silence that forms when I’m THINKING OF YOU.
- I’m fucking tired of the Zooey Deschanel image that everyone loves of the quirky, happy girl that loves the world and thinks everything is great and is the kind of girl every depressed writer would like to go out with and DOESN’T FUCKING EXIST.
- I’m tired of being lonely and no one talking to me and every new person I meet thinking that I’m too annoying or judging me in silence.
- I’m tired of liking girls who have a boyfriend and/or wouldn’t go out with me anyway.
- I’m tired of finding something I actually like to do, writing for instance, and then also get tired of that.
I’ll just add more to this post in the next few days.
For most girls it seems writers are an unattractive bunch, for those that disagree, I’m not a good enough writer.
I long for many things.
I love for acceptance.
I long for lower gas prices.
I long for death, sometimes.
I long for books that will never be written,
films that will never be made,
and songs that will never be heard.
But most of all, I long for being in love again.
I often imagine myself rescuing you. That’s just how much of an idealistic prick I am. I often think that, if I rescued you from some great danger, that you would somehow fall helplessly in love with me. That you would have no emotional choice but to see me as a perfect entity, an entity that wants nothing else than your safety, an entity that would gladly step in front of a raging lion to save you.
Of course, let’s face it, I could do very little against any ferocious feline. Maybe if it were a vicious dog, then I would stand a chance. This complete lack of inhuman strength convinces me that I’ll probably never have the chance of being your physical savior, now that we’ve established that psychological rescue is not really an attractive field.
This is all based, of course, in all those silly movies and books I saw as a child. The hero always rescues his woman from some huge danger and therefore wins her eternal trust. He does this with a mixture of equal parts wit, brawn and a very specific choice of weapons. Sometimes, in more contemporary settings, the hero rescues the lady in distress from her living conditions or an abusive father/husband.
As much as I would like to, I can’t do any of that. I’m not particularly smart, or strong, or wealthy. I can’t save you from anything that’s currently tormenting you. I can offer very little in the field of actually making a difference in your life except trying my very best yo make you the happiest person on earth, and that’s not saying very much. Plus, we’re young. No one our age has actually tasted true happiness in any way. Obviously this puts a large red mark in my record.
The fact is you’re probably never going to be in a situation in which I may be able to save you. Even if you are, I probably won’t be around, and some other guy will rescue you and you will fall helplessly for him and I’ll be here, sitting in my room, writing.