I hate myself. I don’t
mean it. I mean I hate that I’m either
only annoyed or frustrated, or isolated, alone, and depressed. Perhaps it is the bipolar. Perhaps it is the manic depressives that I
surround myself with, my capacity to change always for the social group I’m
with, my fundamental lack of self. I am
unfulfilled. I’ll say it and scream it
and flail it and bleed it or some such, and I’ll certainly not grow out of it,
or so it seems at this point. So I’m
stuck with it, with me, that is, and that’s depressing since I so desperately
want to break free from myself. Which is
why I drink. Which is why I stopped
drinking—the fact that I drank. Reason
enough, with my personality. It’s just
that the self blaming, self victim shit really does get old, especially when on
repeat and especially when there’s no earthly reason for it.
And so.
NYC. The ever loving having made it city. The place where you go to become something
you’re not. A perfect place for the
delusional, really. Fuck Vegas. We are in the mirror twisted panorama of
human fantasy right here, in this little hip long island, where authenticity
rages and ersatz is bespoke.
The point is not above.
It is not the critical. Only
production matters. And production—of anything—is
quite difficult.
Try it sometime.
