My own personal severance check.

In retrospect, I don’t really know why I did it. No one can tell me, and I can barely tell myself. Maybe because I always told myself I couldn’t, and I’m a damn dirty liar. Maybe because I have too many social ties with it. This is a story like any other though, maybe with less characters and action than you are accustomed to, but a story no less. People will think I went off the deep end. People will tell me it’s crazy, that I’ll be back, and that I’ve done this before. I feel sorry for the people who feel that way because they are where I used to be.

Today, I quit Facebook. For how long, I can’t tell. Maybe I’ll come home from work tonight and feel my decision was unjustified. I’d say I didn’t think long and hard enough about it, but it’s that exact ideology that drove me to this decision in the first place. I put too much weight on the networking half of social networking. I was merely gathering a list of girls I liked I would never speak to, and friends who would talk shit behind my back based on the very hierarchy of bullshit that I was entangled in. I’d post music videos that captured how I was feeling at the time with not so much a comment or like. I’d post lyrics that, at the time, would be me baring my soul to the Facebookosphere, but no one answered. This isn’t a story of a boy who got tired of not being paid attention to though, this is about the people who never did.

I’ve spent a good majority of my life in a social downward spiral. I, like most sane humans, have trouble talking to the opposite sex (especially if I take interest in them as perhaps more than friends). Facebook was a tool to help that along and it worked for a little while, but it didn’t work well enough.

The irony in Facebook is that it gives the users a feeling of being cared for when in reality none of the three-hundred-thirty-something people I had on my friends list gave two shits about me. It’s an artificial ground of community. Anyone who actually cared already has a dedicated way to get a hold of me. It never made things easier, it only made things closer. There are far too many things going on around me to care about what’s going on over Facebook.

I recently asked a girl if she’d grab a cup of coffee with me in a message. While she said yes, and we had a fantastic time, I found this to be a huge failing on my behalf. When did I get so shy? Why do I feel the need to ask via a message? The more I think about it the more I realize that it’s easy to message because you take the personality out of it. It’s easy to deal with the consequences when the person is miles away from you.

I don’t need Facebook to ask someone to hang out with me… it’s just a tool that has led to the demise of social interaction!

So yes, it is possible to feel entirely alone in a room full of people. Instead of sitting around waiting for someone to feel the same way I decided to open the door and walk outside.

The weather’s real, real nice out here. Come and join me, I think you’ll find it to be real nice as well.

#143

And don’t be worried when I never say “I love you”, because I do.

I’m just scared to say it, because I don’t know anymore. Probably, never knew.

But words are only words, especially just one or two, let alone a few.

Because even though I never say “I love you”, what are words when I rather just show you I do.

 

Hello today, all you people
And I hope I can make your problems go away
Use me, abuse me, mold me like clay
To your mental creases, until my body ceases to resemble itself in any sort of tangible way

I am not myself, and I while I like to write I am merely a heart with no voice and no choice but to keep it bottled inside.
And I choose to extend this service to you because I am nothing, but not in any sort of sad, depressing way.
Because you see, despite my aversion to religion I still choose to have this moral, faithful vision which gets real hard to follow some days.

God, I see you and as clear as you see me, I just choose not to believe in any sort of tales your book weaves. I know you know better anyway.
And despite your lack of presence to me I choose to live by your teachings, because lets face it, anyone can relate.

I realize I am open book without an editor.
Full of words, hooks, lines, rivers, and rhymes but with no guidance, context, or understanding of contemporary times.

And as painful as it may be to admit, I am nothing without a higher presence to guide me into it.
Oh what agnostic rambling is this?

I am without faith, view, or context of your ways but I use you everyday so I must thank you for existing in some sort of tangible way.
And I must admit, I’m sorry that I am not one of your children.

Don’t plan on me being one either, because despite what this may say I am far too set in my ways.

I will not change.

Untitled

It was a hobby of mine. I’d go places, anywhere, and stare at the dead-eyed people who have made more than a few wrong choices in their lives. 19 year-old dads who broke the condom, or god forbid didn’t wear it at all. Smokers with holes in their throats who choose to still smoke. Alcoholics stumbling through the next fix. The real cream of the crop though, meth addicts. I fucking love watching meth addicts. It’s a magnificent one man show with all the roles filled by schizophrenic parodies of Peter Sellers.

I was content with this because I didn’t have much more to be content about. Was I watching as hollow inspiration to not make the same mistakes, or was I watching because I didn’t want to feel so bad about mine? No one makes all the right choices. We certainly live and learn in our time, some more than others. My mistake was living and being far too aware of it. I am condemned to Earth with these sad fucks. Loving, lying, and everything in between. It’s a real bastard of a catch-22.

Yeah, I’ve thought about suicide. Long and hard, to excess. A lyricist pretty much summed up my thoughts though. “The hopelessness of living, or the childishness of suicide.” Besides, I’m saving the one bullet I keep stocked in the revolver beneath my bed for when someone really misses me. When no one cares it’s a fruitless endeavor. I want someone to miss me when I’m gone. I want to destroy someone’s life with the carelessness of mine. You can write, you can film, you can act, and you can sing and fucking dance but the only true immortality is taking someone down with you. Headline news, the magic disparity between tragedy and statistics. I’d like to think some futuristic civilization will dig up my story and say “What an asshole.”

So when you are walking around your corporately owned grocer of choice, and you see someone in the cafe staring at you intently you may want to think what you’ve done with your life to end up here. Why did the fates intertwine me with you in this one moment of pure, subtle moment. Consider the mistakes you have made that light your face like a beacon of despair. Think that maybe I, the person sitting there in the cafe, may be your new friend or lover.

However, whatever you do, do not love me back. This is not a love story. We won’t fall in or out. We won’t dance and entangle ourselves in the hypocrisy of sex.

 

Because if you love me, one thing is for certain.

 

You are my mistake, and I will fucking destroy you.

JLH

Sometimes I like to pretend that Heaven exists.

I’d be getting rewarded for all of this.

But we all know as well as we all don’t, that our time is now.

So I need to build my heaven, but I lack the confidence in knowing how.

As an amateur writer I can do several things.

 

I can add people that didn’t exist, I can get rid of people who were there, I can change the outcome of a bad scenario, I can make person A like me, I can make person B hate me. I can win fights, I can lose fights. I can have a job I love. I can be in a band, and our band could suck… or maybe we’re the greatest band ever.

I can do so many things by molding the world around me. I can change everything.

 

 

 

 

 

But I can’t make any of it real.

Writing has become incredibly difficult for me which can only mean one thing. I’m doing just fine.

 

I don’t belong here.

The Twilight Phenomenon (and why they are terrible [okay, mediocre to be fair])

What has happened is that a certain level of mediocrity has instilled itself into our films. If Twilight didn’t run the paces, and be generally mediocre I might actually like it.

Okay, I get it. you are a 13 year old girl (or a 21 year old girl with a 13 year old girl mindset) and you want to believe that vampires are these graceful, romantic beings. And certainly they are in some universes. The only one that comes to mind is a table top RPG (which seriously, who wants to, like, hang out with those nerds, OH MY GAWD).

Here is the deal though. Some us like vampires because they are grim, sociopathic cretins whom are shunned by society…not Hollywood darlings. Like us… not you.

In Which Our Hero Dies(pt. 2)

Death is an interesting thing. It’s inspired poets, musicians, and general artists alike. It’s the crux of a number of different ceremonies (based on religion, race, and so on). One fact remains throughout all of it though: People are scared to die.

Not me.

I’ve come to accept death at a remarkably young age. I’m surrounded by it, and it’s fuel for my inimitable dark humor. In the literal sense I’ve encountered a lot of friends, and family pass (mostly in my younger years). In the figurative sense I find myself picking out subjects in every day life and really questioning as to whether those subjects are in a living state.

We don’t cherish every leaf that falls to the ground in its brown, lifeless state. I view us as a society as a series of leaves. We form a “community tree” in which we are trapped in a pseudo-limbo with others based on location, and interests. Some of us fall to the ground, yet the community remains unshaken. Always forgiven, but never forgotten.

This isn’t to say I don’t have regrets. I’m not depressed, and I’m not “emo”. These things are mostly left up to the unfortunate societal view of those casting the blame. I would never kill myself, because in a sense that isn’t accepting death, it’s just giving in to it. There are many things I have left to do, but the more I realize the futility of the ceremonious human dance that is to fall in love, and have a family the more I realize that death is, in a sense, a respite from the drudges of every day life I’m not particularly interested in.

So there is always the corporeal sense of death. The tradition so to speak. One passing, and leaving ones body. This is just life. What goes unnoticed is the spiritual sense of death, and more importantly why I accept both the corporeal and spiritual sense. Walking down my road I see people using their poisonous drug of choice. This is spiritual death. I see a father yelling at his son as discipline and this is spiritual death. I see a girl who got married too early, and is not happy. And this… this is spiritual death.

We are all dead. We are taught not to act so, but we are.

So in that sense I’m ready…because I’m already half way there. Will leaving my corporeal body make the wind blow the leaves in a different direction? No. People will die before me, and people will die after me.

I am just another leaf in a community.
So, some will call it desperation, some will call it depression. They are sad, and dead.

But most importantly, they aren’t ready.