Indignation is as boundless as empathy is hypothetical. Online evangelism, like police DUI threat propaganda on TV, has coined these buzzword fashions of the communally brisk and their platform pseudo evidence, the pony express meltdown patrolled for and patrolling. We are all an excuse away from being caught. Any sociopath can provoke you socially jailed and coattail that shame into a victim’s choir. There are real life victims outside whoever squabbles to be termed one. But culture will always be an autoerotic stool pigeon. This has been how the crowd kneads its heroes out of bullshit since fire was the first technology. There was food, then religion, then psychology, now the internet. I’m here to say fuck the full extent of those procedural usages. They are some cornerstone surfing at the lack of a big deal underneath. Alienation is our only science and my lab coat keeps fringed with the stool of my betters. I’ve been five leagues of broken in love, enough for life. Enough to stop the word. When I regain my living wage untoileted from the follow through, pity whoever my arrangement’s with, for I will be as utterly cold and cruel to them as I have been taught, and the price catheterized of their beauty shall turn green the embers of hell. I know the flop for control is a paramount human condition and whoever fights this fact with support or kindness builds a snail of their potential. How you can make someone feel is as far as you’ll go, regardless of quality. But I want to make you puke your shoes until we’re both athletes. My place for that is forgotten either as a niche in the arts or as media murder lore and I can’t afford the hardware. But I can tell you that your indifference looks like fucking tofu to me. No socialite tag team do-gooder meme to like and like, no banner ad piety near the arts, no complaint mistaken for the abundance of my scream. Hate don’t cater. It earns and earns. It collapses deeper than electronics because hate is another reason they’re there. I have been retaliating for ten goddamn years. Every time I touch a keyboard a job interview goes south. I’m in the wrong umbilical situation. This is America. Your parents aren’t your parents. Money is your parents.
When you love someone who won’t love you back, that is your full time job. No connection’s more superficial than a basic understanding of reality. Anything you amend is thieved from neighboring perspectives. The things you should have done instead will viciously unwind you. I am not a good catch. I am supportive and kind and unconditionally loving for the years it takes you to be bored with that much attention. Then, listen. You use a third party to change your mind about a relationship and I will give you a fucking paragraph meant to troll you from your curfew. I will renege my cuddles out of self-defense, at the cost of our suggested potential. What I won’t do is anything else to you that will leave a mark. Language, ignored by a desired head or on the page, does all the lashing I want to hear my nothingness plank.
When I fell in love and refused to play this male ego game of my indifference controls you, the confused and proper response was to punish me over a torturous amount of time and without regret, to replace that dude control for me, at me. I will try now to act husbandly, zombified, and quietly pursue others. That is our world without aloe, abscond with your diapee if you wanna hawk this term miserablism. I present the five point gauntlet of rejection for those dedicated geeks, boy or gal, who get punked and fully broken and go insane afterwards, or worse, write poems, in my shitty life’s chronological order, my hamfisted attempt to appease the few I’ve been with, or tried to be with, and the vanity brain freeze slurpee throughout. These five women, excepting the first, were extremely bright, beautiful, talented, unique, vastly experienced, and independent people. That is who can hurt you with expertise. They needed nothing from me, but reluctantly, unfortunately, took everything at my insistence, and, of course, moved on immediately once finished. Their suffering, like the suffering of any rejecter, was caused by the mere annoyance of my existence in their proximity, and their patience to capitulate, out of some vague sense of obligation. I’d never subject the people I love to my memories of them. May they live forever. Who’s so contemptibly brave I waggle in my phobias they might force out kids to prove they can set a goal? I want to stress the untold factor of anyone’s being with me at all as proof of their unending generosity, and fuck them for it. If your lover introduces you to their people, and the pressure’s on, and you have to be on, and if you can’t wow them right why don’t you grow up anyway, that’s adulthood, we’re adults – get out, walk away, spit on the people, anyone desperate to be an adult deserves the preemptive nursing home between their ears.
1. Physical Rejection: My double virgin pawn and high school love, tall and mousey, cute beanpole leggy geek with nightmarish parents who suckered her and myself by consequence into a cult-like religion, where I lent a paw for service, going so far as to dance in their fucking program, hopping corny skits against domestic abuse, frottage later, spent all my video store job’s minimum wage savings over a year of crappy dinners on this progressively vacant and rude moron I refused to stop loving, even when the other boys snuck in and I learned to spot a liar. (Lies? Who am I kidding? She was fucking proud about it.) She bartered with those as attractive as herself, who could fill her somehow gigantic pre-hymen flapping labia, an endless hamburger torso to neck, even after busted. My introduction to the hypocrisy of your bogus victim, which is when you say too many sharp remarks to an asshole once they hurt you and they try to conjure up some legally unsound story to forget their guilt. They lay your bad response over what they’ve done and come away a millionaire. I refuse to be a saint when someone cheats. I refuse not to answer that person’s nightmares. I am openly flawed from word one. Sometimes you have to span the manure to locate who you are. I was alone years after, hoping she would notice what she is and seek a pat. I believe she’s now a hefty slag of estrogen wearing forty kids. Thank you Bill Hicks.
2. Intellectual Rejection: This is a tiny proto-hipster who had been seriously molested, detached ironic in an earned demeanor before that was so much the public sphere. I wanted to scrape the world away from her, from us, and marry. We had only kissed, for her comfort, poor darling. She was diabetic and would slide the needle into her tummy at which I would shiver in lust like we could come the insulin. She liked to use her judgments to observe people so hard they would cry when told, destroyed by mean psychological perspicacity, an aggressive almost fuck you empathy for the purse, and I was no exception. I was kept, this angry city art dummy, amusing until he tripped over his crush, a curiosity, deeply in love, or displacement obsession, whatever icicle treatment term she’d bang about, for a few months. From a robot’s perspective, everyone has a personality disorder. This wasn’t a relationship, it was an intellectual waterboarding that still impacts my lungs. When I snapped and said my much less subtle version of mean, her victimhood at least had a history to back up its unnecessary paranoia. I think about her the most because I failed her the deepest. Note that I feel I failed when she was clearly marginally experimenting. That’s the skill set here. (A preoccupation with whoever left you does not flatter that person’s skill set. It means you can slur your life well.) Her house had burned down in her youth. She watched her cat choke out smoke and die. I sent her some of my dog’s fur in the mail for incessant wiseassery. She felt pursued by spirits, sexually cursed, virgin at 21, did not drive on freeways. Her father died from Vietnam complications. She was an amazing clinician, better than I can describe. Her greatness was inherent, even if she hid behind appearing too sane. I dream of a life where I broke through her irony and pants. My main evil is no one’s misfortune can school me in censorship. I’ve been frivolously accused of too much of the pretend. You want that ineffable mister dedicated to playing you both. I would have been really good to her if she was capable of being vulnerable and I was capable of taking a huge amount of psychological turmoil aimed at me because I exist. The last time I saw her she poked me like a specimen. Used men to email me to request the stalking stop. But I was being ironic. There was no sick pursuit (outside my head and a random accidental possible sighting at an event, excuse me) aside from the occasional please come back. Men really get out of line sometimes and what’s a concept of that happening with us where you’re not just fine and secretly giggling behind a veil of too much blatant, common, and unwarranted protection? I never said anything dumbly frightening and literal enough to combat the intestinal amount of insults you excel at. I am only ever crying if I spoke. I apologize. As Popeye says: that no one likes who I am is proof something went right. Contemporary irony is like anything else, you can’t not lose when you try to define it.
3. Creative Rejection: Tape Man could not compete with Haley Joel Osment. Who could? An impressive loss for my type of nobody. There is no tall enough crime. But I never perform to the capacity of what I can spout upon rejection. These are just phone conversations with the most incomparable mind for her age in literature, who lives far off and finds me moderately interesting, likes one thing I did, knows I’m clearly not ready, is far younger than she swore she was, sounds absolutely like a grown woman, has read more than most, forgives my hatred, mimes I love yous out of pity, can draw, plays violin, and takes up and masters a style of writing on the spot once I introduce her to the work of Osment, and they hit it off on their own, easily publically known, famous by decree, much against the favor of my mental health, and especially, at the time, hers. I just read some internet morality summation on the topic. No, internet. No. If a mind that advanced stuck with its age range, like giving wine to a tadpole, she’d have been the pedo. I would have waited however long to meet her upon learning this and maybe still will, if she’ll be my boy?
4. Social Rejection: I was the most simpatico with her for the longest amount. Mastered really good sex, in various acrobatic methods and full passion. We fitted. The only person I dated who could return love without being offended by how crass that really is. We recovered okay because we think similarly, though I believe the problem was my not being especially acclimated and hers was texting a lawyer, some others, finally ole cardigan sweater of the knock them around a bit more than they ask for variety. She was way stronger than those she let beat her. I’m sure he never uttered a menacing or threatening phrase between each strike. Real control does not need to proclaim itself. There is nothing more tiredly dangerous than a man who broadcasts his decency. Any male imposter acting out this delusion is no taller than the trophy in his shorts. Who’s got more heart than that, you bandied populace? Smart decision, backing the My Chemical Romance lyrics, shocked when he’s not Mr. Rogers, millions of female readers. How my references checking out? One maniac to another, I envy his range. People like this will be read forever. I’ll be that inescapably cruel when I lose some more weight and switch my lines and good intentions real emotionally upfront, ladies.
5. Psychic Rejection: She had a little skeleton, skinny like a stray, but I returned her to her gorgeous curves. We sat in silence until an evening ended, in a staring tease to prompt one another, holding hands like time itself wasn’t prepared for what I could do to her. Then I did it. We improved over time. She liked being taken oddly slow, to boss back, super intense eye contact to feel connected. Promoted who she is with the same jocular confidence she missed, but you could never tell because she was genuinely charming. She hopped over a chair the first time I saw her like Last Tango in Paris. I was never that duped in love. I hadn’t been with another languagey writer, and she was talented for her age, whenever she could focus, being ambidextrous with the arts, a well-versed enough tourist in them, considering pretty aliens can’t earth themselves too hard, and I worked with her on her work all the vast hours I should have on mine, because she did go on to insult everything I do, once she ultimately surpassed it with my help, a matter of speed in practice. Of course she would have surpassed me anyway, without anyone’s help, but in slightly lengthier time. I call dibs, stealing her demeanor on the page. The Gal of Mode. It’s all at her altar. She rejected the essence of who I was. Her Aryan family treats you like the abortion they expect you to be, not to say without kindness. And she needed that sense of family restored, that lesser societal belonging to juxtapose her uniqueness. I would have provided it for her in an instance, if I were capable. I provided everything I could, rattling around in that we’re tattooed each other’s until beyond circulation. She’s so much grander than the artless, drugs are art, popular kid fun she’s patronizing herself medicated with. Her impressive fear of me – while highly flattering, and I guess her only concession of power handed back, partially kind then, if simultaneously understandable and misplaced (if someone hadn’t read my public drivels or listened to me speak ever, I’d get it, and very few have, but she was supposed to comprehend, anyway it’s very sexy, her fragile nerves, her frustratingly withdrawn behavior, her over-tuned and astonishingly pure empathy, such a quiet girl, so cruel inside her head you want to marry her to stop the racket, as if marrying a specter didn’t satirize the institution enough) –was confused overall, was not merited and makes me think she never knew or loved me, but she always kept reserves, even with her soul mate, and stop doing that: You’re both the most vulnerable and unwittingly guarded person I’ve met and I’m sorry I loved you like a kamikaze but why fucking else love? My Aubrey Plaza, lily of the zeitgeist. Her demeanor is more attractive than people are attractive and she is also attractive. She moves like she knows we were all meant to be aborted. Wants to kill men with the idea that monogamy occurs. Much, much more exceptional than the life she wants to live.
Some feign anger at the suggestion of their cheating to obscure the topic. No secret I attack so deft because I stink of affection, this need to misarticulate myself flippant to revenge the typical banishment. Hey, how people deal with life is worth way less than life to me. We’re thousands of years in and our communication skills are 99 percent war, especially where identity’s involved, so there’s nothing really beneficial to hide from or to be. I could have been talked into indiscretions, if spun meek and sexy enough, maybe, just don’t constantly ask me to take a dive against the shittiness I’ve cultivated as the poor poet’s idea of myself. I’ll learn to be the correct balance of cruel, guys, and by cruel I mean adjusted.
