Again we’re faced with a situation in which I had a very serious topic I wanted to write about but simply can’t muster the energy to put that much effort into it and I don’t want to ruin it! So, we’re going with an off the cuff day in the life of blog which, let’s be honest, is just more fun to read and write.
There’s a Pagan at work, or Wiccan, whatever those cringey 50-something cat fetishists like to be called. Here in the whitebread midwestern US of A, if you’re a Wiccan, you’re a Satanist. Everyone at work is low-key terrified of her because she sacrifices babies to the fire-breathing god of the stars but she’s really just the endgame build of someone who has been desperately crying for attention their whole life. Cries for attention are rarely cries for the kind of attention the person actually wants. They’re motivated partially by resentment, so they’re often pretty embarrassing.
She wears all black, has that disgusting pin-up girl hairdo that was all the rage in, like, 2005, and her hoodie has a pentagram on the back. Hilarious when it’s a 20-year old “punk”, sad when it’s somebody’s grandma.
Now all of this is quite negative but it’s light hearted (she’ll never read this and may or may not really exist) and it’s meant to set the stage for why I empathize with her. Had I never gotten sober, and I’m not insinuating she’s an addict; I have no evidence of that, I could easily see myself winding up like this. Begging for negative attention was my M.O. (or “ammo” as a less literate coworker frequently says) for most of my life. As with anybody else, it was primarily motivated by resentment. God and all of humanity had singled out and scorned me personally and it was only right that I make them uncomfortable whenever they were around me.
It began innocently enough and I think a lot of writers had the same experience when younger: when you’re the kind of person who writes, you’re likely more analytical and thoughtful. So, at a young age I started to notice the paradoxes everybody was living. To me, the world was quite superficial and inane. Knowing this, naturally, made me smarter and better than everybody else. So I began to embody other people’s paradoxes. Having a collection of gothic and industrial albums but sneaking Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears in to confuse my friends who would thumb through them. Wearing polos and cardigans while punching people in the face in a mosh pit (the main inspiration for my fashion at a young age was “Mike” in SLC punk). Telling a girl I was on a date with that I was a vegan right before taking a bite out of the hot dog I just ordered (she didn’t think it was as hilarious as I did). That phase of it is still funny to me (and actually fairly intelligent, it’s the 4 dimensional chess Donald Trump is accused of playing) but it only got worse.
Sometimes When People Accuse You of Being a Nazi, They’re On to Something
My stylistic influences and online diatribes went from light-hearted jabs at the asinine hypocrisy we’re all guilty of to bitter and angry litanies against “whores”, “blacks” (I used a word with more bite back then), and any other group who wasn’t me. Since anyone can be filtered into a group, I had no shortage of subject matter. This was actually after my stint in the American National Socialist Party came and went (some day I will write about that but I’m not going to promise when anymore, lol). I’d been forged by my own lunacy and the people I’d surrounded myself with into a machine that burns good intentions and outputs hate.
Alcoholism and/or drug addiction is almost certain in someone like 23-year-old me. Despite being an objective piece of shit, people loved me when I was drunk. I don’t mean that arbitrary love we reference when we talk about hot wings, I mean I genuinely felt love for the first time in my life. Of course, it was all chemical. Those people didn’t love me or even really acknowledge that I existed when I wasn’t dancing like a trained monkey for them. Still, that’s a difficult feeling to not fall for when you grew up with a distant father and narcissistic mother.
Ope, it’s time to start work so I guess that’s the end of this one. I’ll probably write chapter two in a few years. Wink wink.