pulling teeth

*** You should stop reading this now and go somewhere else because this will be the most pathetic self indulgent load of crap on the Internet.

Good thing I got my 500 daily words done yesterday morning because if I had to do them last night, I would have been fucked. I'm not in a much better frame of mind this morning.

I want to quit writing. I have no idea why I want to write. It's fucking painful. Oh, should I have warned you that there'd be lots of cursing. This shit just hurts too much. It is physically painful to think about writing. I have nothing to say. I'm irrelevant and boring and I can't figure out why I should bother.

Last night, I almost deleted my Facebook account. It's a good thing I have fairly strong impulse control. I'd be causing havoc all over the place if I didn't. The writing gurus are right, though. Committing to writing everyday and posting this bullshit - without qualification or excuses - helps to force me to do it even when I hate it - writing - and myself.

The disdain I have for my writing can't be expressed. I never want to put pen to paper again (yes, I still write like the ancients did) or put my fingers on another keyboard. But the white screen calls to me and I respond like an addict. I hate it. I hunger for it. The thought of it makes me ill and more depressed and hopeless. I have to have it. I have to have more. I obsess over it. It invades all of my thoughts and moments.

I'm writing a one thousand word story for a writing contest and it's stupid and fractured. It makes no sense. I have until the twenty-ninth to finish it and submit to the judges. I suppose I'll work on it today. Maybe I'll read it at my writing group tomorrow. It's so dumb though. My adjectives are trite and mundane. Dumb. Seriously. I could throw up right now.

One soul is living and dying in five different dimensions/lives, switching genders and time periods. In one thousand words. What was I thinking? Man, I'm desperate. I have nothing to say and so I'm saying dumb things.

If you came here to read this crap, I'm sorry. I should put another warning in the beginning that I would be wallowing in self-pity and boring you with my whining. It's getting harder and harder each day to bother with anything. Routine is the only thing getting me out of bed now. I think it's the thing that's killing me, too.

Doodling helps you reduce stress. I need a big doodle pad. People are coloring now. I remember when I got laughed at thirty years ago for coloring. Now, I'm really babbling. I've completely lost focus.

I went back up to write a disclaimer so I could say, "I warned you."

If you've read this far down, though, I seriously apologize.

Don't Look at the Dead Bodies Lying on the Side of the Road

I cry a lot in the shower, in the bathroom, really. I imagine because it’s the most private room in the house. No one interrupts you when you’re in the bathroom. Except small children. If you have small children, there are no sacred places. They need; they want; they fulfill.

I sit on the toilet and the tears start. It begins at the base of my skull, in that ancient place that has no intelligence beyond the basics. It moves into my eyes, my vision turning brown. My ears clog with dull air. I smell rotting vegetation, damp, muddy and heavy. My skin itches, microscopic bugs crawling on the underside of my dermis. Iron fills my mouth. I wouldn’t notice if I bit my tongue in half. I was fine an hour ago. That thought is my lifeline. I was fine an hour ago, I can be fine again. The roaring continues. The shaking in my bones rattles my teeth. It hurts to breath. Not physical breathing. The breathing of my soul. It hurts so bad that I just need to stop. Quit. I don’t even know what it is, but it aches like a bad tooth or an infected ear or an ice pick in the brain.

I move. I move into the shower and let the water mix with my sorrow. I sob. I might drown in the shower. I shove my fist into my mouth to keep quiet. I bite down, the pain of my teeth on my knuckles distracting me momentarily from the other pain. I disgust myself. I have no logical reason to be this way. I am defective. I am broken. I am worthless. That decided, I calm down long enough to go on, go through the motions. It doesn’t matter. I don’t matter. I don’t really exist.

I need to derail that big, black train that belches black and grey smoke, the monstrous diesel engine forcing the powerful machine down the track, past any possible switches to other directions. I picture that train: large, opaque, steel, dark, unstoppable. I chew off a fingernail and spit it into the path of the churning wheels. The friction abates just enough in that miniscule spot and the locomotive flies into the air and crashes in a fiery ball of noise and confusion followed by the cessation of sensation.

Nothing is an improvement.

Exhausted

Hank Williams ~ I'm So Lonesome I Could Die

I am exhausted

by guilt

by sadness

by emptiness

by longing

by foolish hope

at times like these

times so frequent

like everyday

I am defective

there’s dust on my head

letters come out bacwkards

tears without the sobs

sham depression

since there’s no real reason

fake, false, faulty

I am forgotten

yet there’ll come a time

when the vacancy sign

comes down and out

pops that other

I just can’t find it right

now

I grew up listening to country music artists, such as, Hank Williams, who died in 1953, and waltzes, such as those by Franz Lehár. 

Franz Lehár ~ The Volga Song

I found the prompt for this post from Brian Miller. He directs us to mindlovemisery who suggests we use the music from the decade of our birth as the basis for inspiration.

Flash 55 - Against

       ~ click image to make biggerer ~

What’s behind that ancient door you have shut
against the world,
against me,
against yourself?

Can you feel the thick blackness pushing
against the raveling hinges,
against the rusting locks,
against the corners of your mind?

Will you fight like a berserker
against the enveloping depression,
against the suffocation,
against your desire to be nothing?

Write a story in exactly 55 words.

The G-Man "Mr. Know-It-All" is our intrepid host.

Visit him and give him a tickle.

Merry Meet and Blessed Be