By Anonymous © 2009
There is not a long enough rope to satisfy a man who paints a noose on the mirror every morning.
Look at him. His eyes are literally bleeding in their whites and he doesn't know why. Worse, he doesn't care. He's studying the gray bags on either side of his crooked nose and trying to figure out if his gut is bigger or smaller than the day before. He's a vain self-fucker and the fact that his right eye is about to fall out of its orbit is academic.
He could look away from the noose he's woven. He could find something else into which he can comfortably slip. He has the power and he's done it before.
It's easier than most people realize. If he sufficiently lubricates himself, he can forget he hates himself. He can turn off the darkness and live like a confident, smart, Mad Man of the 21st century. It's not real, but it's possible. And in the 21st century, real isn't real, anyway, so he takes some heart.
But, no, this guy, this hollow-eyed fuck needs to fully realize the root of his self-loathing before he can truly accept himself for what he is. And "realize" here is not intended as most people say it. It doesn't mean "recognize." It's all about "making it real." It's only when he finally reaches the gutter that he says, "Well, it's about time."
It's a tricky walk, the hopscotch of a man who has everything and is sure he's still fucking it up somehow. The drunken waltz is long periods of relative calm cluster-bombed by intermittent periods of maniacal recklessness. The calm is uncomfortable, like a new suit on an ex-con. He keeps it clean and pressed for months at a time, but he knows it's a little too snug in the shoulders and a little too long in the legs. Wearing the suit is a job.
The only time he doesn't feel like he's faking it is when he's slipping into a hole, when he's being himself, that smiling, back-slapping, willing-to-sing-if-you-ask-jolly-jolly-man. Each little bomb on its own is of no real consequence. When they get together, though, they are dangerous in such a wonderful, cock-sucking way that he literally spends weeks at a time wondering how he can make it happen again.
Because, listen, the cluster bombs are not really what he's living for. When he's slipping, it's just part of that fumbling reach for the real goal. He's not living for the moment he smiles. He's living for that one second that he rolls over and recognizes he's so far gone that he doesn't remember where he started.
He won't admit that, of course, so don't ask him. Under the lights, he'll say he's sorry for the mess he's made, that he won't do it again, that it was but a brief stumble in an otherwise well-considered plan. The smart people will see through him and make their decisions accordingly. Everyone else will tell him he's righteous. This guy's tragic flaw is that he can't believe either side. In his heart, he is neither the hero nor the villain. In his heart, he knows the hero and the villain have a place, have worth, have meaning.
This guy's place is in the middle of the struggle, that shameful climb back to the real world. That's what it's all about. It's all about finding that soft edge and dry-humping it until he lets loose all over its thigh. It's contrived, unsatisfying, and ultimately humiliating. It makes him a mental wreck and ruins almost anything he conceives. There is no pride in it, but he long ago realized that, when presented with pride, he does everything he can to destroy it. The pride is manufactured.
The humiliation, that's what's so fucking real that it can't be ignored. That's the thing—fuck the play.
Submitted by Anonymous, who resides in Anytown, USA.
January 12, 2010
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