catch22 (catch22) wrote,


I'm thinking about sending a short diddy I wrote to a contest...tell me what you think? Please note that it's in rough format and such.


It's 2am and I can't fucken sleep again. Why am I so messed up? I hate my hair. Some days I just want to shave it off and be done with it. The only thing that stops me is the fact that I like to brush it on nights like these. People also complement on it, The golden blonde that catches the sunlight and in the shade it looks like it has molten copper streaks. It's down past my waist now, and tomorrow I shall cut it to my neck. It brings back memories. I couldn't cut it till I achieved my goal though.

What was my goal? Well goals are different things to different people, some want power and wealth, some want to be remembered and loved. I want neither. I was never a normal child, I didn't have a normal childhood, why would I have normal goalsWell I tried to once, but that was short lived the thought of normality just makes me laugh my ass off. No one is normal. Everyone has their Snafu. What I want is to stop living my life in the nice little loop it's turned out to be. I mean isn't life a path where you don't have to repeat? Shit, mine's a Loop, and I'm coming around for seconds. I get to go live through hell because someone said I'm some big fancy word of some sort, and I need to heal myself. Well all I can say to that is fuck that. It's not a good attitude, but FUCK IT ALL. Who is it that can tell me that I need to go back to my past and dig it up and face it again? It's like saying "congratulations, you just ran to Hell and back, but I need something to light my cigarette, so you have to go back." It's been four years, and now I get to give the dime tour. This is just my dreamtelling someone who doesn't really understand it, and wants to know stupid unrelated stuff like: what types of colors make me "Feel Happy" or better yet what kind of flavored Jell-O I like best. They think I'm crazy, I'm not crazywell maybe I am, you have to be crazy to go through Hell twice, and here I am doing it.

I went to my shrink today, he's an asshole a pompous asshole who wouldn't know what good music was if it bit him in the butt. He listens to this stuff that has no structure."Free form" music is what he calls it. I think he's disillusionedI mean he is the one who buys CDs of people bawling at the top of their lungs. What kind of music is thatit sound like my dorm neighbor from my freshman year in college trying to be Celiene Dion? I mean pleaseisn't it bad we have to put up with one? But any ways back to Doc. Today I told him about one of my suicidal thoughts. Oh I've had so many fantasies of it. Which one did I tell him? Lemme think. Oh yeah, the knife one.

My father has this silver handled hunting knife from Mexico. Well my plan was to take it and shove it into myself. The spot for impact would be base of the neck. Right where the notch above the sternum. I couldn't leave a mess for anyone to clean up, so I'd have to do it in the bathtub, that way they could just turn on the water and wash away the blood. Ah yes, the blood, I can almost feel it gushing out of that mortal wound, the warmth of my body leaving me heartbeat after heartbeat. I wonder if blood leaves a crimson stain on tile, I hope so, because then my existence would still remain, and no matter what, they would have to look at it and know it was their fault. Their Veins probably run black blood.

The good doctor interrupted me at this point of my story to ask who "they" are. This is a nice shock, I mean I thought he earned that degree instead of buying it. So I told him that he was one of them. Man he is so stupid; he still didn't get it. I hate that "what the hell are you talking about you nut case" look. That look just pisses me off. So I told him, breaking it down, sort of like how you would explain death to a five-year-old. First "They" are Society at general and Individuals to be to the point. My mother and father are not "Them", but my mother and father are influenced by "them." "They" teach my brother to hate, and my sister to take. "They" beat me senseless because I don't agree with "them". "They" pass judgements before hearing the whole story. I am not "them." I can become "them" at anytime I want, but I see through "their" gameI've found a loophole. He asked me if "they" are males. What kind of question is that? I mean seriouslydo I look like I could become a man? Pheh, I'm to wise to that game to let myself go there. I told him very calmly that "They" are the ones who won't understand, and my parents aren't "Them" because I helped them see. He then asked me how I made them see.
So I got up and went over to the nice leather chair he was sitting at, and took his hand. (This always scares "Them." It's a great joy to watchtry it sometimes.) I took his hand and opened it and looked at it. It was a big hand, but it didn't have any marks of wear. The nails were clean though, I remembered that. I took his hand in mine, he could have easily broken every bone in my hand just by squeezing, and I'm sure he knew it, but any waysI guided his hand to his right ear. I told him that he needed to pretend he was a woman for a moment for this to work, to which he agreed. I told him to listen to the words of societydo you hear them Docdo you hear the faint echoes of. Slut...whorebitchDo you hear them doc? Listen harder and you can hear more. Do you hear the wordsSexMotherRapeDeath? What other words do you hear doc?

Then I guided his hand to his eyes, and told him to picture with his mind's eye a man. I asked him to look in this man's eyes and start dissecting the man layer by layer. I told him to peal away the quality traits one by one, and to call them out as he did. He started with "kindness, gentleness, and honest," and I told him to go deeper. So he called out "intelligence, humor, religion," and I told him to keep going. This stopped till he finally said, "fire, rage, and fear." That's it keep those, and go deeper. He then started sweating and fidgeting, "wow" I thought, he's actually doing it, there may be hope for him.

Then I took his hand and touched it to his mouth. I told him to remember the taste of love (he was married). He smiled at this, what a dope. Then I told him to take this taste of love and dig in it a bit. Do you recognize a unfamiliar tasteDistant traces perhapsThat's the taste of other men, some wanted, some notas the ram their tongue down your throat, and as you try to twist your head away, the taste is still there, it's still there no matter how many times it's scoured by gum, mouthwash, toothpaste and what not.

Then I took his hand and put it on his nose and told him smell what man smelt like. Not the perfume that is used to mask this smell, but the true smell, the acrid, sweaty smell, the eternal stench that is carried from birth to death. He got pale at this comment, so I moved on.
I took his hand and moved it his cheek and told him to feel the hardest blow he could imagine a man giving. He flinched. Then I moved it to his hand to his chest and chest, and took his other hand and placed it over his mouth. I told him to picture the exact amount of pressure a guy needs to place there to keep you on your back. Now picture the amount of force he needs to uses kissing your mouth, getting his saliva all over your mouth which is clinched tight in fear of the attributes you saw in the eyes of this guy.

Then I whispered in his ear"Kill him," to which he pushed me off balanced onto the ground. He looked scared. He was no longer one of "them." But to prove my point I had to finish it. "Doctor," I said, "keep that feeling. Hold ithold itno pretend it has been 6 months." Then I grabbed a pair of scissors and put them in his left hand and took his right hand and touched that squishy spot right above the sternum and told him to think about taking those scissors and driving them right into that spot. I told him to hold that feeling. Keep itkeep it, pretend it's been 4 years and this feeling has come back. It's been 4 years what is there left to do? The guy is long gone, everyone else has moved on, yet you are still in the past. Who are you going to tell? Who would believe you now? Like they would have believed you before.

Then the clock stopped ticking. I told him, "Well Doc, I do believe our time is up." See you next week same time same place. Have a nice day." He was no longer one of "them."
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