Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

The Death Clinic, part three (a story)

This is the night I'm going to get everything right. I promise. For once in my life I am going to tell the whole truth to one person or page for posterity and I am not going to let anything or anyone frighten me or intimidate me or otherwise get me to change it. Goddamn it.

This is easier written than done. I've written this down on paper, the closely-ruled kind that notebooks claim is college ruled but they never say why exactly. Do college students really need those smaller thinner lines to get more to a page? And if so, why? I think about taking a survey among students in college classrooms to see what they write on and why. Paper choices say a lot about people. I don't know what, but a lot. I start writing again.

Here is the truth. [Deep breath.] I don't think my life was anyone's fault, not even my parents'. Yes of course they were responsible for the act that led to the zygote then the fetus then the baby that was me, but once I slid out screaming and trying to bite the doctor that really should have been the first hint to the world that I wasn't happy to be here. Thirty seconds in this reality and I wanted out: doesn't that give you a hint to something?
I've been trying to hide my whole life whether you realize it or not. In: books, games, fantasies, whatever. Scientists now say that lots of daydreaming leads to Alzheimer's and doesn't that make perfect sense: the elective and then the inelective fragmentation and dissolution of reality.
God says hint hint. Go.
The whole world wants to escape. What do you think drugs and movies and religion are for? The promise of removal, first temporary then absolute. The Lord is my Shepherd and I am ready to be slaughtered, to be eaten and to become a sweater.
Take me into you. [That's what sex is. Sometimes.]
And people into astral projection. They can't get out here so they want to get out there. Or something. It's all about getting out of these stupid stupid bodies. No one really likes bodies, that's why we have so many taboos about sex and shit and digestion and everything. Bodies are embarrassing. And the sad part, the really sad part is we are SOOOOOOO obsessed with a perfection that doesn't exist.
There's a reason Barbie dolls have neither accurate proportions nor genitalia nor holes. Even Giving Birth Barbie lacks a pussy, to look at it small girls will be taught that babies come from the place where their intestines should be. And yes all of this is disturbing on multiple levels, the supplantation of wombs and digestive organs to small little rapacious Lilliputian things. It is not admitted but so many people have a horror of children, and that's why the worst thing in the world is children out of wedlock and abortion and lots of other stuff baby-related. We don't love them, we hate them and we do not want to look at them or deal with them.
Here are two key facts about children. 1. They all look like their fathers, so the male will not kill them. 2. They emit special pheromones or other smelly thingies so that parents and others will not kill them. We naturally hate babies so much we have been genetically engineered by natural selection and Darwin so that we will continue to make them. This is the same reason we really like sex, so we will keep doing it over and over.
I have never had an abortion but I do want one of the tshirts that says I have. How much of this is me and how much of this is capitalism I cannot say.
All I ever want is sex sometimes. People say if you say that you sound like a guy, but I don't know why. Why can boys want it but girls can't? And sometimes I don't want it and that's wrong too. Sex is confusing that way and the fact that it leads to reproduction makes it even worse.
Why is it selfish to want sex but not babies? Why is it naturally impossible to have babies without sex?
I like that seahorses, kangaroos, and penguins make the males do a lot of the work taking care of babies too. I bet if men had pussies they'd whine less. Vaginas are astonishingly strong, and why is it therefore that pussies are synonyms for weakness.
Someone should do a survey on vaginal strength. Maybe they have. I should go look. I like research. Please see Appendix.
Where was I? I had a point but I do not remember. I think my plan to erase myself is working since ever since I began working at it in earnest it is so hard to remember things. Stuff that seemed so important is blurry now. It is strange that once I made up my mind to die my life instantly became better. Before I seemed to swim in tears.
Here's another list. This one is of Things That Used to Make Me Cry:

*The boy that left me, broke my heart, fucked a woman, and had a baby with her even though he hates her. (That was both ironic and unpleasant at once, not either/or.)
*Being told I was ugly.
*Being told I was stupid.
*The threat of being hit and/or raped.
*Going to the doctor.
**Bonus: Going to the doctor who told me I was ugly and stupid because of the boy that left me et al. and being put away and the subsequent threat of being hit and raped.

It's funny sometimes when I tell people that story and they can't deal with it. It goes over their heads like an F-16 sound effect. When I'm able to tell it that is and I'm usually not able to.
The greatest unpleasantness is how much I always hated clinics and now I'm going to die in one to get better. I really really will, I promise.

I stop writing and start thinking again. Strangely enough I don't really think that much when I write, even when I'm writing lies. Lies tell the truth better than truth does, except that's when we call it fiction, or again, religion. God is the greatest lie of all and my most favorite game of make-pretend, because it makes even me feel better to talk to someone who isn't there. except what's the difference between praying and hearing voices? I wanted to ask that of the people at the hospital but most nurses don't seem to grasp metaphysics. Anyway.

Are you my diary? I never wrote anything "Dear Diary" or know anyone who did. My diaries weren't my dear friends but my abused little slaves who were beaten and thrown about in all the agonies of Wordsworthian-style overflows of pure bloody emotion. It makes the most sense that when I felt the most was a teenager, and that was when I bled the most, bled on everything, even my diaries somehow. And that's why my journals are my children because they too are born in blood. [How will archivists preserve that?]
I don't think you are anything, little notebook. I expect you'll be destroyed with everything else anyway, and I think I am fine with that. Everything is dust to dust anyway and I don't want poets to argue over my bones. This is not a harp made with a murdered girl's hair, sorry. Even if it does speak the truth. But the truth is transistory and only truly matters to the one who experiences it, and the paper is experiencing it now.
I hurt.
It hurts.
I hurt.
We hurt.
Is it tomorrow yet?
Am I done?


( 2 comments — Add your .02 )
(Deleted comment)
Sep. 23rd, 2005 05:44 pm (UTC)
Sure, just go to my "memories" and select "stories." :)
( 2 comments — Add your .02 )

Latest Month

April 2018


Powered by LiveJournal.com
Designed by Tiffany Chow