The constant doing of it.

WARNING
TERRIBLE THINGS YOU MIGHT NOT WANNA READ BEFORE BED COMING UP
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How do I feel? My girl is gone. I'll never ever see her again. It hurts, is how I feel. It's been hurting for nearly seven years. That's just one of my feels though. She's totally ok, right? The logic of that tells me to be happy. She's only an immediate emotion though.

I see myself sometimes. Occasionally I'll catch a glimpse of myself and I look like a curled up ball of person when I see myself. Isn't that ugly? How does that work? How can I see that, and be it at the same time? How can I be so ugly to myself? How? I mean why?

I don't know how anything happened. I can't remember how I ever did anything. My history is a mystery to me.

I have a few comforts though. One of them is mortality. My own mortality. I think it's because of books. Books have endings, and so do I. I love to read, and because of that I understand endings. I'm gonna have one too, sometime. An ending.

I don't understand anything about my story though, and that's frustrating. I love it at the same time though, that I don't understand shit. Wouldn't you be almost bored to death if you understood everything? There'd be no surprise. No joy. I don't know what anything means, or what to measure anything by, our how to figure out what's valuable and what's worthless. I have no clue about those things. It's despair and joy at the same time, the knowledge of being self-stupid.

About a couple of months ago I saw a recorded livestream of a 12 year old girl hanging herself, and crying and apologizing as she did it. Why did I watch it? Because she recorded it, as her last act before death, and she wanted it to be seen. How could I not watch it, knowing that. Watching it was like having an electric current running through my brain at full voltage during the whole process. I couldn't react. I was paralyzed, and my tears were rolling out of dead, motionless eyeballs that couldn't blink. I felt like I was being killed as I saw the past tense suicide of a 12 year old girl transpire. I was almost dead too, as she was swinging and choking. That almost killed me, it did. It almost killed me right then and I'll never, ever recover. It's a permanent condition.

At the same time I recognize a necessary survival element inside of myself, and I think I'm lucky to have it. It's like this buoyancy that I don't understand, that always stops me from sinking, exactly when I'm completely perforated by the dead bullets. It makes a funny out of a horrifying. It turns an offense into a fuck you. This mechanism inside of me always, always makes me laugh, right when the bulkheads are about to give.

I guess that's good, but... it's just a remedy. It ain't a solution, you know? I know all of this sounds totally emo. It's just a piece of my insides that nobody else ever, ever wanted to see, but that I'm always always trying to make into something that's not batshit crazy. It's kind of exhausting, the constant doing of it.

B is for beshitted.

A befuddled Beelzebub boldly imbibed a barrel of briny beer behind the barn before belatedly barging blindly by Baal's barmitzvah then barfed beside a burgeoning bevy of embittered bugblatter beasts and blamed the booze for being a bastard.