Schizo

Chapter 2: The Vibe

Another fucking hallucination. So vivid, even though that thing was just a blur of speed and wishing I would die. Too soon? I don't think so. I'm quite the dismal person once you get to know me. Plus, I don't give a damn. This is like my autobiography in a way so I'll say things how I want.

To be completely honest with you, I'm quite surprised I even stopped. I think I was just surprised by the fact I was already in the ditch once and I didn't want to wreck my car since I didn't have enough money to afford a new one. Usually, I keep driving. Hit them straight on. Watch their bodies shimmer into dust because it's all a figment of my imagination. 

I remember when I first started driving again, after the wreck. I was with my mom, my brother, and his girlfriend. Basically, I cried the entire way home. Heartwarming story, really. My mom told me a few days after that she made me drive home because she didn't want me to be alone my first time back out on the road. True story. Greatest mom ever? I think so.

Snap back to reality, like Eminem (and if you don't get that reference then you better lose yourself in his music. Hahahaha, okay I'll stop now.), I'm on the side of the road with my lighter lit in my right hand and a freshly rolled blunt in my left hand. I glide the flame coming from the lighter across the surface of the blunt, to seal the split ends together. Finally, I look up and put my car in drive. I put the blunt in between my lips and light the opposite side. I take a deep breath and relax while I'm driving down that same cracked and broken pavement I take everyday to work. Too Young by Post Malone is playing from my car's speakers and the vibe is effervescent. 

But the song takes me back to the wreck. It's another thing I remember after crawling out of my car. The lyrics "I don't wanna die too young" make me feel empty or is it the weed setting in? I mean, I don't want to die too old either. I'd rather you put me out of my misery before you put me in the old folk's home where younger people have to, you know, clean you up. I'm already uncomfortable with my body and even if I do get surgeries done, I'm pretty sure being a wrinkly old man won't make me feel too hot about myself. What do I mean when I say 'surgeries'? Well, I'm glad you asked. It's 1 AM, why not talk about my body at this ungodly hour? That was rhetorical, by the way. Anyways, I'm transgender FTM. So for me to even feel remotely okay with walking outside, I have to wear a binder. Yes, it conceals my chest. Okay, stop asking questions. Fucki-. Oh, yeah. I guess I shouldn't be rude. I started this story out talking to anyone who reads this, but now it's ending up to be an entire conversation with my demons. Jeez, we're only on the second chapter too. Incredible, Kyong. 

Reality hits me again and I take another hit off the blunt because fuck it. I don't want to feel anything at this point. I'm too paranoid to want to feel. Too anxious. Too sad. Too hurt. Want me to keep going? Didn't think so. Too depressed. Sorry, that one slipped. 

When I'm high, I don't see things. I'm not sad, lonely, depressed, paranoid, or anxious. I'm nothing. Throw a few pretty colors in here and there, I guess. Maybe I'm a rainbow. What the fuck? Kyong, you're not a rainbow. When you're not high, you look like an Easter Island Head. In lamest terms, you're too serious. Lighten up bro! Sorry, but I can't. If I show people I'm still a fun-loving person, then they will want to interact with me and that's exactly what I'm trying to avoid. I don't need any new people in my life. I'm content with the few friends and family that I talk to. I don't talk to anyone at work, unless I'm called on to help with something work related. After what happened with that fucking bitch I met before, I really don't need to talk to anyone outside of the circle I have from my hometown. 

Another hit, I look into my rear view mirror and peer into my eyes. Maybe my soul. I don't know because I'm too high to care. I'm just trying to see how red my eyes are. Let me tell you what, they are red as fuck. I'm lit like the 4th of July. I know when I get to work I probably won't be able to function, but I stand all day so maybe I'll wake up. I'll go to the bathroom to splash some water on my face. Fuck it, I'll just stand there until break and then go smoke a cigarette. I guess I'll have to act like I'm working though. 

I cut fabric. That's all I'll say about that, but sometimes when I'm holding my scissors and flipping through parts really quick, I'll imagine I cut my finger off and watch the blood pour out over all the finished parts I've done. Sometimes when I think of how messy that would be, I can't help but get irritated knowing all of that work would go to waste. My finger? I don't know, what about it? There's lot of people in this world who have cut fingers off and survived. Look at Jerry Garcia (if you don't know who that is, look it up. If you do, Deadheads for life dude.), he played a mean guitar and he was missing two-thirds of his right middle finger since the age of four. Wikipedia claims he didn't even know most of his finger was missing until weeks after the wood-chopping accident, when the bandage that was wrapped around his hand fell off while he was taking a bath. I hate to tell you this, but I also didn't know I was gushing blood out of my elbow until I felt blood running down my wrist and onto my hand and that was a good 10 - 15 minutes after it was cut open. 

Actually, this might sound weird, but I don't think my elbow was 'cut' open. I think while I was trying to hold myself against the seat when I was upside-down and rolling to my doom, my elbow was pushed against hard plastic within the car and the pressure was too much on my elbow and my skin just tore open. Gross, right? Yeah yeah, whatever. It would explain the fact that flap of skin that was inside the 'V' was all bunched up into my elbow.

Moving on from that disturbing description, for you at least, reality again. I realize I'm on my way to work and just... Put me out of my misery. Please, for the love of all things holy. I don't want to work another day in my life. At least, I don't want to feel like I'm working. I want a job that I like. Doesn't everyone? Well, when you're broke and running close to the end of your emotional range, you decide "hm, maybe getting another job right now would be too much?" Duh, you think so? Fuck that. I can barely handle one job right now. Plus, I write stories and music when I come home so that would cut into my creative time. Money would be nice, but I'm so cut down already just waking up and taking my first breath of "fuck this entire world" everyday.

So fuck it, just breathe in the vibe.