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I Bleed for This? 045
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---------------------------- I Bleed for This? ------------------------------
------04.07.96-----------------------------------------------------#045------
Please Let me Out
by Jason Farnon
"... because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones
who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be starved, desirous
of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say
a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow
roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in
the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes
'Awww!'"...
-- Jack Kerouac
I'm old. Really fucking old. I don't write anymore. I don't want to. I
don't want to do anything anymore. What I swore would never happen to me
because I would never let it, has happened. Again I will impose my
experiences on you because I am too feeble to fight my own perspective and
imagine that others might have different experiences; I impose and at the
same time excuse my failures by saying that the same exact thing will
happen to you; and there isn't a fucking thing you can do about it. Suicide
is still the only noble cause. It will happen to you because you will
never expect it to, because my warnings will fall on deaf ears, and because
you were never brought up to fight such a powerful force - that is if you
even bothered to fight in the first place. Or if you ever thought it was a
force to begin with. I used to write long essays about trying to stop this
from happening to other people, and in the meantime the cancer has spread
to me.
Now, my only vices are a few good friends, making plans that will never
happen, a replacement cat (yes, Kiesa is dead), alcoholism, and fleeting
impulses of wanderlust. Even those will eventually fade, and I'll be left
with my old decrepit body as a trophy for my accomplishments in this world
run by people who band together in fascist groups to clash against
something, anything, when in reality they accomplish the same exact goal;
absolutely nothing.
Apathy has set in. The desire to burn is seeping out, and I am slowly
being assimilated into the society I swore so fucking loudly I would
have no part in. How did it happen? As expected, very gradually.
Things happened I can say I had no control of. I needed money for
school. I needed school so I could get a job and make more money to
support myself. "Money is important", Dad said. "In America you don't
get anywhere without money. I'm getting old, I won't be able to
support you for much longer."
Let me make something clear: I had full control over the things that
have destroyed me. I just didn't have the courage or self confidence
to fight my life sentence. It was much easier to agree with what they
said was the next course of action in my life, then doing what I
wanted to do. I guess I figured making everyone else happy was more
important, and I'd learn to like my situation eventually. Well I
didn't and all I'm left with are sleep deprivation and the prayer that
my liver doesn't give out too soon. The world is a scary place when
you are sober.
So I got a job making decent money for a boy with no chest hair. Dad was
very proud. He told everyone how accomplished his son was, and for a
second I wasn't the loser who dropped basketball at the peak of his
"career". I was something dad could be proud of. That held me up for a
while. But I hated everyone at work. The stupid people didn't deserve to
live, and the few smart ones weren't kicking any ass with their
intelligence, so they were a waste too. As you can imagine, when I entered
the work-force, over the years I had accumulated innumerable social skills
hunched over an 8088 laptop at 3am with a bowl of ramen spilled on my
unwashed pants.
So I either mumbled or growled at everyone I saw. "How was your weekend
Jason? Do anything interesting?" was a question I hated. Why the fuck
would you want to know what I did this weekend you stupid motherfucker.
"You don't care about me or anything I do, and the person who taught you
that should have their asshole expanded with a frisbee" would have been my
choice response, but I usually got away with "Fine". They were amazed
that I didn't complete the mindless circle by asking them how their
weekend was. When I finally got the hang of asking them, I just couldn't
fake the fact that I didn't give a shit. My voice was generally some form
of sarcasm, as I was hoping that they wouldn't start telling me some
story. Did I look like I cared? I was being paid to program, not to have
people try to convince me that their lives had some shred of significance.
I got by because I had computer skills; plain and simple. I didn't know how
to dress; I didn't know how to make presentations at meetings; I didn't know
how to make a customer feel welcome; I didn't know how to take a compliment;
but I sure could make that computer do stuff! Writing code, alone, all day
is the kind of work environment I strive for, so all was well. I got away
with my sarcasm and sneers because my workers lived vicariously through me;
at the time, a young punk. They were young once, and missed those days when
they actually had some choices. Now there is that god-awful home life they
have to come home to. Their only excitement is the porn they find on the net
(believe me they found a lot), and calling phone sex hotlines on their
cellular phones when they are stuck in traffic during the rush hour commute.
They are pathetic asses, and at least back then I kicked some ass. They
watched me at least begin to question how things worked around there, and I
was cheered on because it was something they would never dare to do. Less
out of fear and more out of plain, disgusting apathy.
But working fifty hours a week, sometimes more, finally took its toll. I had
more money than I knew what to do with, and I didn't do anything with it.
Eventually it will go towards my pathetic college education, where I will pay
more than seven thousand dollars a quarter to not go to some classes.
Eventually I'll get some piece of paper and they'll have to pay me more at
work. Yay!
At first I didn't change how I lived, but exhaustion slowly set in. I didn't
have the energy for both worlds, and I definitely could not disappoint the
working one. A long, long time ago, I used to watch my friend's parents come
home after work, lie down on the couch, and watch their brain leave stains on
the carpet as they blankly stared at Webster and Family Ties re-runs. I
always wondered why they didn't do something interesting after work. Now I
know why.
I just didn't have the energy to do anything. I was pissed at the world, and
I knew what was wrong, but I just didn't feel like doing anything. I just
didn't care that much. I was becoming a pathetic pseudo-intellectual (the
fat ass comes when you enter your 30s), and the awful thing was instead of
being sickened by myself, I was becoming content with my situation. Better
than the morons who don't know what the fuck is going on, right?
Everything else followed. Take their jokes. Goddamn their fucking jokes.
They were never funny. They were just stupid. Failed attempts at humor.
Stupid fucks. I always hated their sad struggles. And one day I found
myself making their stupid jokes. Jokes I knew were stupid but I knew we
would all enjoy. I laughed along; I even thought they were funny. At least
I had the decency to bash something in that night. They probably came home
and retold the jokes to their fat ugly wives.
I wouldn't have been able to write any of this unless I had started drinking
when I did. Thank God for the bottle. It is another one of their poisons,
but I will take it over indifference any day. Luckily I have warped my mind
enough that a good amount of cheap vodka will have my mind reeling into a
time when everything was a possibility, and I still had the hope that one day
I would be happy. Now I can look forward to a short trip to Europe before I
leave college. Having my own place will be cool, but the novelty of that
will wear off too quickly, and I will be right where I started. I could take
satisfaction in my job, but there is no satisfaction when you look at the end
result.
And while I'm sitting here laughing my fucking head off at an obscure
Simpsons reference and feeling like hot shit, the world is rotting quicker
than ever and the stench doesn't seem to even bother me. Do you even
remember when you smelled it everywhere, it was so fucking thick you could
cut it with a knife, and you spent restless nights plotting against it
knowing nothing would make you happier than to destroy it? Do you remember
when you didn't laugh at IBFT? Immaturity, hardly. Fuck You.
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IBFT: No matter how hard you laugh with or at it, you'll NEVER get it.
http://www.amherst.edu/~mcspinks/ibft/ibfthome.html
email: mcspinks@unix.amherst.edu
ftp://ftp.etext.org/pub/Zines/IBFT The Eleventh Hour (617)696-3146
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