Paranoia III

Now I'm really getting fed up.  Even the slightest little slip gets an eyeroll, a groan of disgust , dirty looks.  A day doesn't go by when I apparently say something that doesn't make sense.  What do you want, I get confused easily.  I think she's at her wits end with me forgetting things, almost constantly having to remind me she'd already told me something I don't remember her saying.  So I forgot to make the oil change appointment.  Is it the end of the world that I threw away the invoice for the new furnace we supposedly had installed?  Are library fines really all that dire?  The lamest conversation draws ire and huffs of disgust or something.  I can't always remember her name.  So sue me.  Tonight we had an argument over whether or not we'd already watched a particular episode of some stupid fucking program we were watching.  I got mad and said I was going to bed.  I feel like a child, and want to be alone.  I climb into my bed in my room down the hall from hers.  Yeah, we've been sleeping separately for some time now.  "You move around too much," she squawked.  "And you hog my side".  I swear, she complains more now than she ever has.

I may have dozed for a while, but my door just creaked open and I see her silhouette tip-toeing into my room.  She's holding a pillow close to her chest, and it reminds me of an earlier, more enjoyable time in our marriage when we'd strip each other naked and get all silly and have pillow fights.  Of course, I think it often lead to some good sex, at least for me, and the feather mess wasn't too bad to clean up the next morning.  Maybe there's hope yet.  Maybe she's remembering how much fun we had at one time and wants, really wants to get some of that back.  I'm gonna stay still and quiet and make her think I'm asleep.

Down in the Dark

Wow.  I dug this one out of an old writing folder.  Apparently I wrote it at a bleak time.  I don't remember writing this, honestly.  Not sure what was going on at the time.  It's only about a one minute read. Have a nice weekend.

 I don’t like feel-good.  Feel-good makes me want to cry (out) or, worse, hit somebody.  Far as I’m concerned feel-good is for pussies and losers.  Day after day I’m drilled with goofy, sappy shit about positivity and goodness.  At school, at home, at work- everywhere I look there’s happy sunshine shit being spooned over me like chocolate syrup and I’m an ice cream sundae. 

     If I want something that makes me feel good I’ll create it or surround myself with it.  If I woke up every day and felt “Gee, today I want to be happy,” I’d make myself do it.  What I want is to be left alone.  What I want is to be allowed to feel what I want to feel, not what everybody seems to want to make me feel. 

     This is why, I’ve decided, I don’t much care for people in general.  I was brought up force-fed with feel-good shit day after day after day, and I’ve about had enough.  There’s enough of that in the world-most of which is fake, by the way- to last several lifetimes.  When I get to work everyone is all “Hey, how was your weekend?” and “Well good morning there, sunshine” and it makes me almost want to puke.  It’s as if everyone is medicated, under the influence of any of the overabundance of “happy” pills that are prescribed much too readily. 

     In my world, misery reigns.  In my world sadness, hatred and mistrust are the ruling emotions.  Are these even emotions?  States of mind, more likely.  Oh, imagine if the world was the way I want it to be.  Everyone walked around frowning and miserable.  No one said “hi” to anyone.  They didn’t give each other the time of day.  Imagine that, if you can. 

     Happy makes me sick.  Happy makes me want to throw up.  Happy causes more problems than anything else.  Happy is fake, and is the root of most evil.  Next time one of your co-workers says something frothy and superficial to you try this:  Stare at them, as if they just turned into a leprechaun or something.  Shake your head, maybe even roll your eyes, then just walk away.  Don’t respond verbally. 

     Make them think twice next time, it should.   

On Proudly Displaying One's Handiwork

The orderly, if that's even a real word, came in this morning and gave me a shot of something.  He said I'd been out of line.  I only had a dream.  It made me cry, but I'm okay now.  My memory is this:  Daddy got mad at something I did and needed to punish me for it.  I don't remember what I did, but I sure do remember the punishment.  It's probably the seed that sprouted into what I am today.  I did a bad thing, and daddy made me go upstairs and take all my clothes off.  He said I better hurry up.  He came up and beat me with something hard.  My ass cheeks were glowing and hot to touch, and he went back downstairs to finish his coffee with mommy.  He called me downstairs and said not to get dressed, so I headed down slowly one step at a time because my behind was sore.  He called me into the kitchen so he could proudly display to mommy his handiwork.  I didn't cry.  I promise.  I didn't know how to be embarrassed of my nakedness in mommy's presence.  I spun around at daddy's direction.  Mommy just sat there, crying and helpless as usual.

The orderly had to remind me that I was here because my daddy wasn't any more.  He said I did another bad thing and mommy was alone now.

I think I'm ready to be good now.  Is it lunch time?  I'm hungry.

(the orderly shit's made up, though the memory is real.  The storyteller's not in a facility or anything.  Don't want anyone taking things too seriously.)

Counterpoint (Paranoia II cont.)

 As if I didn't have enough to deal with, this moron groped our daughter-in-law at the dinner table.  Like I don't have my hands full already.  I swear, I'm going to have him put away somewhere if this shit keeps up.  He tried to say he was mistaken, that he thought I was next to him.  Why the hell would he even try to feel me up at this point, never mind at the fucking dinner table?  It'd only lead to disappointment as usual, if you know what I mean.  I'm getting tired of making excuses for him.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, in sickness and health and all that shit.  Whatever. 

Paranoia II (sorry folks, you'll have to hit "Older Posts" if you need a refresher)

 The kids were over for dinner a day ago, a week ago- who knows.  My son's wife sat next to me and I mistook her for my own wife and touched her breast during dessert.  I didn't think anyone noticed and I forgot we were at the dinner table. Talk about a firestorm.  My wife called me a fucking freak, smacked me in the side of my head and sent me to my room.  I couldn't say goodnight to the kids.  Now my son isn't talking to me.  His wife is furious and says I'm a pervert.  My wife hates me and I think she's plotting ways to get out of our marriage.  I don't remember where my son and his wife live so I can't even write to him to apologize, and I surely can't ask my wife.  Sometimes I'm just confused.  Is that a crime?