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Fucked Up College Kids File 550
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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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Eyes on the Floor
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I think I'd like to stay optimistic (I THINK I would...), but it's hard
when you're staring into the toilet after the 6th time you've jacked off
that day, and you realize that you didn't even want to do it, something
just possessed you because your body knew the relief that it would find
when you were done. It's hard to be encouraged by anything when you know
that a large part of why you've managed to stay alive to this date is
comprised of the remedial effects of an orgasm (or several). There's
something frightening in that. That you've become that dependent on
something of that nature...that it's the only crutch that you have left
that can still support your weight most of the time, even if it's only
for a minute or two. Sometimes, you don't even think about sex; you just
keep a blank mind and go. Sometimes it hurts too much to think about sex,
because you know that there's no one who'd get that close to you,
particularly for a relationship.
That's most of the problem, right? Relationships. No, I don't think it's
a universal fix-all, but the idealism of a relationship holds connections
to so many other and greater interlinked problems within its talons. I'm
17 and I've had one relationship in my life. Yes, one. And it wasn't
real; neither of us cared about each other and it ended after three
weeks. It's hard to find anything but emptiness in the world when you've
got this feeling that you're still going to be alone in whatever it is
that you're doing no matter what or when it is. Heh...and my parents
wonder why I've never had ambition in school...
The two might be related, but...only sometimes, I think. Sometimes, I
manage to tune out the whole side on relationships. I can convince
myself, albeit sometimes in a state of repulsed panic, that I don't need
anyone. That I don't even WANT anyone. And then i can think of Her, and I
almost believe myself because it seems like such a distant possibility
that a girl that perfect would ever want to even know me that it doesn't
feel real enough to hurt. I guess that's the part that hurts half the
time. The other half is the part where reality sinks in.
I don't know. It all seems ridiculous, but it all always seems
ridiculous. Everything. Only...today was extremely disheartening 'cuz all
of the sudden I realized...it's too late! My life could turn perfect
right now, and although I'd be happiER, i wouldn't be at all happy. Even
if I had everything that I wanted. The rage built up too much over the
years, and it consumed me. I am it. I hate and want to hate too much. I
just can't fit in, and I don't even want to try because I did once and it
made me only more tired.
You can't control rage. You can control how much of it can take over your
external self, and you can control what it makes you do to other people.
You can't control its growth. Suppress it, and it'll grow under your
thumb. Slide it behind a facade and it will grow until it consumes the
bricks with its heat. Eventually, the rage will have grown and consumed
ravenously, and what it doesn't capsize it simply distorts and disfigures
beyond prior recognition. Before you know it, you'll be unable to keep
patient for anything or anyone. You'll be either ready to fall off the
end of your seat with anxiety, or you'll feel unable to even levitate
yourself from it with depression. It's more or less a daily coin toss.
You may find yourself suddenly snapping out of reveries of biting the
flesh off of another human being in a fight for lack of a better release
of the rage you picture spewing forth, with your teeth-clenched and your
eyes staring acid holes into the desk/table/chair/wall in front of you.
Or more likely, the floor. It's hard to look up, but down is right there.
Right there to send your hate. But you don't have the finances to mail it
away in any significant or alleviating portions. Ah, it's not helping....
just go jack off again...
agrajag
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