“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.