I wanted

Someone to lie beside me whilst peering up at the universe

watch a satellite flash by

get close for warmth

Someone to hug, just because I love them

Someone who will hold me

and keep me together

when I am breaking apart

Someone who will cling to me

just because they want to

be with me

Someone to cuddle

just because we want to feel loved

Is this a friend? I wanted it to be so

Perhaps in this day and age,

it is only a romantic partner


I need physical affection

Like I need food

I hunger for it

Not kisses, not sex, not romantics

just love.




I’ve regressed. I’m back to talking to myself in my head and listening to the same music I have played over and over for years. Today was just another day, except I’m 17, and I think I pissed off my parents. It’s supposed to be my special day, and the most exciting thing I did was take apart a bed, enjoyable, but not notable. I could tinker with things all day, it helps ground me in reality. Life becomes as simple as pulling a screw out of a hole and turning a screw driver. It’s the simple tasks, I’ve found, that are most satisfying.

I’ve never changed. I always have the same haircut, the same clothes, the same interests. Joseph is the kid who is in every class who just sits there. Reliable old me, the guy who bothers with you a text about politics or his depressing life when you just started blissfully forgetting he existed. I stopped initiating text conversations with my friends a while back. Haven’t received a text from any of them in months. Do I give a damn? Not really. I’ve just learned I’m probably not that important to most people. Oh well, that’s their problem, since I’m such a (Narcissistic adjective needed) person. I’m just unsure why people don’t want to do anything with me. If I suddenly went quiet, never texted, only said hi to people at school and exchanged a few bullshits, and never invited anyone anywhere, no one would really mind. I’ve thought about going to the doctor, to ask about my mental health, maybe I’ll get diagnosed with depression, then it’ll be official and I can REALLY beg for sympathy.

“I’m depressed”

“Oh really? Maybe you’re just a whiny bitch?”

*pulls out diagnosis

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you want a cookie?”

I probably shouldn’t though. Knowing the state of US healthcare, I’d probably get sent home with a bottle of happy pills, just because some fat cat in charge of a pharma company needed a little pocket change. The day I begin taking pills is the day I kill myself. No way am I going to live like some half rate heroin junky, relying on a drug to get my hit of happiness.

I just wonder why no one wants to be with me as bad as I want to hang around with them. This isn’t something new. My memories from elementary school are always of people hanging out without me. I probably seem odd to most people, probably look like a dumbass who is just taking advanced classes to attempt to go to a nice college. At least, that’s what I’ve heard from people who didn’t know me well, a grand total of 2 people. One is now my friend, the other was and always will be a self righteous asshole. A very intelligent fellow, but a complete dickwad, nonetheless. I’m a nice guy though, probably too nice, unless you start talking about politics, in which case I get very un-nice, for lack of a better newspeak term. I like books, movies, and politics, seems like I would be able to get some next level conversations going, except no one reads anymore, and my taste in movies probably has more in common with those of kids born in the 80s, thanks dad.

On a side note, everything on this blog is probably going to be more bloggish. I got tired of poems and stories. Those will show up once in a while, when I feel like being a cryptic bastard. This is far more therapeutic than being poet.

Thought Processes

There’s an old proverb

About how you can’t eat money

What kind of disgusting world requires money?

I realized today

You can have all the wealth in the world

Every material good

All things you ever begged for in Target

But money doesn’t love you

and you can’t love money

If I had the whole world in my palm

I would give it up, because I’ve forgotten how to be happy

I’m not happy when my family loves me

I’m not happy when I receive gifts that are worth enough to feed an African family for a year

I’m not happy when my friends are happy

I’m not happy with myself

I’m not happy that I write all these things

I’m not happy that christmas is tomorrow

I once received praise, a few days ago, and I didn’t know how to react

I’m mentally ill, I slip in and out of the illness.

I’ll act happy, to make everyone else happy, because that’s the least I can do at this point

I’m 17 today. I received hundreds of dollars today. I would happily give it all away, to be happy.

Maybe if I lie enough, go through the motions enough, one day I’ll believe it.

Maybe that’s all happiness is, people lying to themselves until they can’t distinguish between the lie and the real thing.

And then a few lucky people actually end up with the real thing.

I can self analyze, I can trace the root of all my problems, I can understand want I yearn for, I can understand people’s minds, I’ve spent hours upon hours just reading about depression, loneliness, people, relationships. I understand it all, and it’s no help whatsoever. I understand that 2 + 2 = 4 but I have no clue how to add 2 + 2 to get 4. I’m still stuck at 2 + 2, adding meaningless quantities over and over, and ending up with the same result: I don’t know.

I’m an introvert. I can’t lie to myself. I’ve been lonely since 8th grade. I thought I was enlightened, I thought I understood friendship on an entirely new level, and I did. But with that enlightenment came the dawning realization, that I had no friends. I would be more than happy to remain ignorant, to desire only to have people to talk about classes with, because enlightenment is no fun.

My friend thinks that I’m sad when she’s happy because I’m jealous. I once wanted her, and she dated someone else. She’s right and wrong, I am jealous, but not of her boyfriend, only of them. They have a fantastic relationship, good for them, they have each other. They have love and happiness. All I can think when I see them is: “I wish I had that”. I also know why, it’s because I have no self esteem and depression. I haven’t felt needed or truly loved by anyone, although I am, I haven’t loved or trusted anyone wholly. I wish I could be happy for them, but how can I be happy for someone else when I’m not even happy with myself? When I can’t even be happy on my birthday, when my family expresses their love for me and come to do things with me.

So to my dearest friend: it has nothing to do with you, I wish you the best, and I wish I could be happy for you, but I can’t. I have depression, you see, I have had it for years. To be happy for someone else you first must be happy with yourself, I’ve been trying to work on the latter for years. One day, I will get there. You misunderstood one thing: I am not jealous of only you and your relationship, I am jealous of all my friends, and the good things in their lives, your life just happens to be particularly fantastic, which is why it is more acutely painful for myself.

I have realized several things in writing this, I can be both happy and depressed, this is a weird poem/essay/rant, and that this would make a fantastic suicide note. But fear not, through the best of times, and through the worst of times, I will remain.

This is a pure, unadulterated look at my thought process. I am happy now, but I know I will slip back into these feelings soon enough, so for now, let me enjoy my material possessions, like a dirty, capitalist pig. 🙂



I hate my birthday. It’s pure bullshittery is what it is. People do things for me just because its my birthday. Like I give a damn. I want people to do things for me, not because I got a day older, and the day happened to land on some bullshit arbitrary marker that tells when the world came back to a spot it was a year earlier. If you didn’t give enough shits to do anything nice before, then why do it now? You probably don’t give a damn about me anyway, so don’t feel obligated to be nice just because its my birthday.

Or maybe I’m just unused to people caring about me as much as I care about them. So I don’t expect people to actually want to be nice. Once upon a time I believed in reciprocity, and then my friend google told me that most likely I’m just dirt to the people I value most. Probably true from what I can tell. Maybe I’m just an asshole who needs everyone to hate themselves more than I do so I can feel happy. I only get happy when the people around me fuck up so I feel better about myself. I don’t get happy for my friends, I can only think “Fuck you, what did you do to deserve this?”. Then I bitch about my problems expecting sympathy. I’m just a self centered asshole, it’s no wonder everything has been fucked up, life’s been one long slide. And now here I am, writing out a rant. Maybe I just want sympathy, or maybe I want something else, I don’t know. And who gives a damn anyways?

A Foreshadow of Melancholy

She waltzes with a man, slowly turning as the room spins around them, a blur. It seems full, yet it is empty at the same time. A hubbub surrounds them, but a hubbub of shades. Husks of humans. Crimson walls illuminated by unseen lights. Her face is smooth. A black masquerade mask covers half, a stark contrast to her pale skin. Pale yet full, not like the fading color of an old shirt, but having more in common with the tinge of pink upon a white rose. she is smiling up at a man, he holds her, and looks down from a head above. They circle and spin, as she holds the handle of a razor thin knife, Perhaps it is an ice pick, that juts out from his torso. His mouth is raised in a smile beneath his own black mask, a match for his suit, as life drains out of his ribcage. They dance on, happily ignorant.

The room is heavy with the foreshadow of melancholy.