So sometimes I wonder if I'm alone in the feeling of complete and utter loneliness. Because honestly, it's a feeling that's hard to describe, and everyone around me just seems too damn chipper to be feeling the same way.
It's a feeling that makes you look at jack o'lanterns in a whole new way, almost as if their cut out triangle eyes are really just sad pits of empathy. Because they know what its like to have their insides scooped out.
You may look like a pumkin bitch, but I feel like one.
It makes you feel like you have a reason to drag your heels.
Who cares if I look like shit? That's the question, and when you feel so ridiculously alone the sad answer is you.... Well, you and your mama, she doesn't want to drag some grungy kid to the store and take responsibility for your looks.
The sad thing is, however, that you do care about your looks. You care a lot. You care because maybe, just maybe, if you clean yourself up, and wear that new pants, someone will notice you. Honestly, I find myself doing that more often then not.
Lonely people want attention, because if they get attention how could they be lonely? Well dip shits of the lonely world, attention is meaningless, it's like talking to a deaf kid who can't read lips. Great! someone's talking to me, but what the fuck are they saying.
Attention will get you no where. Freindship, yeah that'll do the trick. At least for most people.
Not me though, no. I'm a special kind of lonely. The kind that has more friends than he needs, but friendship will only get you so far. No, I need some TLC, emphasis on the L.
It could be that I'm a hormonal teenager, or that I have no outlet for my angst. But Jesus, it is completely reasonable to want someone who you can share yourself with.
Lonely for the lack of love. Lonely for the lack of experience.
I blame myself for this, being too closeted in high school. Well, not closeted, but I certainly wish I had been more "out". How are you suppose to play the field if none of your teammates know you're even in the game?
This seems to have turned into a rant. I gauge that if a pap smear, or a colonoscopy could be turned into words, it would read something like this. So I do apologize.
It's hard to be gay. It's hard to be lonely. But fuck me, it's hard to be gay and lonely, and not know where the fuck to go to fix it.
Honestly, sometimes I feel broken, like I'm doing life wrong. Like I've crippled myself. Got a cut on my arm from not taking a chance, and not daring to do something different. Once that cut was made, I only cut deeper and deeper, the cut festered, and the whole damn arm fell off.
Great, now I'm a one armed lonely gay. And because I chose not to take that shot. Not to flirt with Zach, my crush of two years who was god aweful amounts of popular, but still came over to talk to me in class (he is straight, but that doesn't keep me from wishing I had put on that winning smile, and said something funny). All of these things, shit that I should have done. Each its own experience, each it's own creepy crawly that ate away at that cut, turned it green, and let my arm fall with a dull, a very very dull thump.
And now, now that my god damn arm is gone, I have to pick it up, and try to duct tape it back on. Try to make up for missing out on those things, those stupid things that could have carried me on in life. Could have filled the void inside my pumpkin gut stomach.
That my friends is why when someone whose lonely like me looks in the mirror before they go to the store, because maybe lookin' good at Albertson's will get me another three inches of tape to hold my arm on.
But alas, my life is a perpetual paradox of lonely. When my fancy self does catch the eye of the bagger whose stuffin' my produce in plastic, not paper, what the fuck will I do then? And thus the arm that fell off comes to bite me in the ass, er slap me in the face.
It's like a bad dream, he smiles at me, and I smile back. Then what? My complete and utter lack of experience clearly will not help me in this situation. So as I think of what to say, and nothing comes to mind I break into a sweat, my eyes get all shifty, and my face turns sour. Hell, I probably look like I've just pooped my pants. From that day on, the bagger no longer makes eye contact with me, lane number six becomes the site of a bloody battle field.
No, not a battle field. It's the sight of a bloody gunshot suicide, because I just shot myself in the head. From there I get it in my head that the cute bagger could have been my soul mate, and I just lost my chance at love. Perpetual sorrow.
The result of an arm that has done nothing but rot, and the smell of that rotting arm, thats the smell of inexperience. And I hate to break it to you friends, but the experienced people out there, they can smell the god damn gangrene. It's like walking into a locker room and smelling so much axe body spray your eyes bleed, you know that somewhere in the locker room there is a middle school boy who thinks he's the shit. But all he's done is make himself stink so much that no one wants to be around him.
So now Im a broken, lonely, smelly, one armed gay with way too much axe on.
And the feeling of loneliness, like a wave crashing at you from all sides, taking your feet out from under you, and slowly choking the last breath from your lungs. It's a slow death, that never goes away. Trust me.
However, some love, genuine love, not that family bullshit, that would probably be a great life preserver. Might even save you from that choking water. Then again, you can keep the life preserver, I'll take the life guard.
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Well, I've ranted enough. You're eyes are probably bleeding, but it happens.
