Bull Poop

I am so tired it’s not even funny.

Mostly, I’m tired of bullshit. I’m tired of my own and that of others. I’m tired of being compared to one-dimension characters that have nothing to do with the complexity of my person-hood. Further, I’m tired of guessing whether I can let myself feel anything at all.

I’m tired of being disrespected and rejected. I’m tired of a broken heart. I’m tired of endless weeks of Mondays. I’m tired of my own bullshit and mostly, I’m tired of being right.

For once, let someone stand by the truth they proffer instead of folding into the convenience of psycho-babble. You stand for something, stand for it. Don’t make excuses of breach. When I give myself, it’s completely and for good. That has apparently gone out of style.

So, what’s the choice? Step back and disappear or guaranteed, get my guts ripped out at the very moment when, like Snowden, I’m trying to hold them in. It’s cold, Yossarian.

Human relationships are disposable, clearly. Nothing means anything. Pledges are for stooges.

Take it from the Main Misanthrope: you can all f*ck yourselves. It wouldn’t make a difference except for the inconvenience of a funeral whether I live or died. Life goes on, right? Let’s all take our happy pills, whatever form they may take, and trample on the inconveniently placed heart, as I fucking knew would happen, again and again.

So, I’ve come full circle. Back to anger at stupid humans and wariness of their ways. Their heartless selfishness, emotional competitiveness and acute ability to sight me, hunt me and kill me, over and over. Why trust unless the trust itself is a lie? If not, why should I be devastated? Ah ha. That’s the point. So by saying that it’s something one does and then not really meaning it – come on, please.

I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I was much better off when I had “friends” instead of Friends. I could blow off “friends” since it hardly mattered to them or to me whether there would be another moment for us. And in every single non-casual relationship, I have been decimated. Clearly, it’s my fault.

So, yeah, I’m hurt. And, no, it doesn’t get better. You took away something that was mine. You stole from me. This can’t be forgotten. And it won’t be forgiven. I’m not a Christian and I don’t believe you can murder someone’s soul and figure it’s all well and good just because some invisible, probably non-existent deity will forgive you if you tell it you’re sorry. What kind of cooked-up malarkey is that? Human invention, clearly.

You have to be some kind of f*ck-wad to treat people like shit. I know since I used to be one. Now, thanks to expensive mind-conditioning, I am like Andy MacDowell’s character in Clockwork Orange. Every emotional encounter makes me sick, because I already know I’m going to get hurt. And I’m not prescient, just experienced.

What’s more, it’s hard for me. I’m cautious, but it makes no goddamned difference. What the f*ck? Therefore, what’s the point? I’m a perpetual temp in the land of the living.

F*ck this, and this time, I f*cking mean it. Goddamn, but a broken heart hurts. So goddamn bad. Bastards. Last time, I swear.

Should I say something cogent? Like I wish you well? I don’t. You just stabbed me in the eye. What happened to the proffer of friendship, of faithfulness, of commitment? What happened? If I’m such a good guy, how could you kick me to the curb like I f*cking said you would? You don’t blame me for you spending your money and your relentless indiscretion. How could you simply decide that you now longer had any use for me, just because things got tough? Huh? It’s cruel beyond belief. I wasn’t cruel to you. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t tell you anything that wasn’t true and only when you insisted that you needed to know.

And know I have to stop because I have to go to work in four hours. You couldn’t do this when I was (out of work) – no, it had to be now. At my lowest ebb ever, and you know it. When I got a short-term gig you knew it. When my sitch is so bad that you choose to simply say, “Get lost.” And that makes every last syllable, every obfuscation, every protestation a lie, a lie, a lie.

You slay me, you really do. I’ll never forgive myself for this – never. Alone again, naturally.

Think this is about you? Nah, it’s about me, trusting, caring and getting a broken spirit one more time. The last time.

*****
This was originally written to someone I cared about very much. Today is a special anniversary – a year since that relationship became no more. I was under the care of a psychologist and still am. I’m a little different today – better, more accepting. The truth, though, is that, for a little while, I thought that I wouldn’t have to thing about the bad old days. Unfortunately, certain events have brought this time back into sharp focus. It’s more than a little disappointing to see how people lie so easily to me and to themselves. I’ve changed a little, but, it seems, that most of mankind hasn’t. Now is the only acceptable point in time for the instant gratification of a perfect, uncompromising relationship, it seems. Otherwise, forget it. It makes me sad because I now know that I can never have what I want out of a relationship – faithfulness and trust. It will always be performance-based, tentative and I’ll always be competing with either the brown grass of the past or the greener grass on the other side of the fence. It’s a business. So, a misanthrope I will remain, until someone proves to me that I’m wrong. And, how likely is that?