Can't. Fucking. Sleep. Again.
And I know why. I think we all do, have these "soft spots" on our nerves - the so-called Achilles Tendons.
Today, I was hit there, several times at a row.
And I fear that I was right - there. Are. No. Fucking. Miracles.
Nope, not to this frayed old faggot. Not to him. Because he sees things, just like the visage of his future self - embodied by the image of his old man, and goes deeper into the pit, the very one he'd thought he might be exiting using "the miracle".
Once I saw him, or what's left of him, I saw my fucking future - just like the obligatory Inception reference: "an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone."
And then...someone, that is a friend per se, sees me in the pit, and throws me a fucking shovel.
Dig, dig, dig, deeper.
Deeper into your own vanity, your own trap of despair, of self-loathing, of endless bad thoughts, invading your head like a fucking cancer, spreading faster and faster, taking control of your fucking mood, of your fucking life.
Dig.
Each word, even though not untrue, hits home, hits exactly on the soft spots. And it made me mad at him, made me want to yell at him, tell him to leave me alone.
But he's fucking impervious. Just the opposite of me. I wish I was like him, but I'm his perfect opposite. I let words and opinions get me down. He doesn't - not at all. I wish I had this ability, but, alas, life's a motherfucker. At least to me.
And I get it - he is, in fact, in his own twisted way, trying to shake me, just like the fucking Dr Evil did, but I've seen, I've felt the results of said "shock therapy", of such "shakes in the head" for the greater good.
It does no good at all.
It just makes me wish for a whole wheel of aged cheese, to eat like a fucking glutton, and wait for my head to fucking explode.
Call me wimp, call me gay. Well, I am, indeed quite so, so fuck off. Call me weak, call me prideful, call me whatever you want.
Tomorrow, it's gonna be the first day of the full dosage of the "not-so-effective", so-called "miracle". 30 mg per day. And it has already caused a somewhat annoying disturbance on the household, because everyone's nagging me about the fucking diet. It says, over and over on the article the good ol' Doctor who is supposed to operate fucking miracles sent me, tyramine might appear on anything that isn't exactly fresh - fruits, vegetables, meat and so on. But said article doesn't quite define what the fuck is actually considered to be fresh - and it's been causing this familiar annoyance, because my own mother, daughter of two World War survivals, doesn't give much of a care about expiration dates on her pantry. To cite an actual example, we've found in said pantry, a fucking can of preserved figs, dating from 1985. And she kept on saying that they might yet be edible. Yeah right. I'll open that can, a fucking teenager mutated fig monster will surely eat me up. And she's been fighting with me, about the - I'm pretty sure - not-so-fresh vegetables she keeps on the fridge. So I told her, "You would rather watch me die, than to purchase fucking fresh ones?" And the endless bitching begins. I think she's rather risk my life than to buy something that is not eligible to be dated from a Carbon 14 test, for being so fucking old. "Fresh", indeed.
I've called that very pantry one day, as a joke, "The fucking museum of edible stuff".
But back to my friend, the so-called Ogre, whom I'm rechristening "Golem", because that's what he is, sometimes - an animated construct with no feelings, he sends me what he considers to be "harmless" emails, but they hit me on my Achilles tendon so many times at a row, I want to scream.
Yeah, I know. If it hurts me, it's because it ain't devoid of truth. I give him that. But there is no need to be a dick about it. And, frankly, he is, sometimes. Just like Dr Evil was. Just like my Owner is. They think they are helping, but they. Are, Fucking. NOT. Helping. At all. Like I said, they're just throwing me a fucking shovel. Dig, dig, dig. You're yet to hit rock bottom, so quit complaining and dig.
It fucking drives me nuts. And yet again, I've lost my faith in the so-called "miracle", since the day my "future self" appeared out of the blue to pay me a visit. It made me feel awful once again. And then, I get the ironic email. Which almost made me want to throw the fucking computer on the opposite wall.
And to make things worse, I just. Can't. Fucking. Sleep.
My only moment of peace I know nowadays, is when I'm knocked out, even temporarily, from this shitty world, this shitty reality that spreads throughout my fucked up point of view. I acknowledge that - it isn't the world per se that's indeed fucked - it's just me.
But I don't need no further help to delve deeper into my fucking misery. I need a shovel like a fucking bullet to my head- or rather, a more tasty death, some beers along with aged cheese. That'll do.
And I tell you all - the sudden availability of potentially lethal items has got me thinking once again - that someday I'll just say, "Fuck it" and just eat all the things I'm not supposed to anymore. And having a blast, literally, inside my head. The last blast.
I really think, that I won't reach 40. Not at this pace. Not if this thing, in higher doses, does not change this fucking "fatalism" of this gutless wimp piece of shit. Because it ain't doing shit about that, as I feared.
I look upon my desk - along with Gideon, my faithful friendly pet dragon, I've got another one, yet unnamed dragon. He has a spear that went all the way through his body. That's how I feel right now. Wounded. The dragon's supposed to be a reference to Saint George - whom killed the beast. That is the Saint I hate the most, for obvious reasons. And that is another reference to the Golem - St. George. Because that's what is he doing, trying to "save" me, by impaling me with a fucking spear through my delicate(how gay) heart.
He might hate me for writing this entry, but that's the fucking truth. And that saying - and another good reference to one of my desert island, all time top five favorite films of all time -"That old saying, you always hurt the ones you love? Well, it work both ways."
So it is. Me, I've got no choice but try to pop yet another clonazepan, and hope it will knock me out. I need this refuge, I need sleep. I need the only way to achieve peace nowadays. By sleeping.
Miracles? I'm losing faith on them, rapidly. Ain't no fucking miracles.
All there is is this fucking pit, and from what I see and feel, I'm a long way away from hitting rock bottom.
So, fuck me, once again. Ta ta. May the drugs be ever in your favor.
