I’m beside myself right now. I keep thinking of this girl too. I met her once. It’s quite a rated R story. Many of mine are. She was beautiful. She had low self-esteem. I’d like to imagine myself that way. But I’m only certain about the low self-esteem part.
I don’t remember her name. Doubt she remembers mine. I remember her tattoos. Her belly. Smile, face, and what she said. She kept repeating it. “You’re gonna fucking hate me”.
We fooled around outside, by the beach at night. I wanted to go to her house, but she told me, no one ever goes to her house. I walked her home.
No one’s been to my house, where I live in The Sequoias. But I feel more like her – this mystery girl – than in that way. She was a mess. I’m a mess. I don’t wish to confess how much a mess, bc its tiring to be judged – and you may think that silly, given that I don’t know who you are. You could be one of my ex girlfriends: I’ve always liked to pretend you read my shit, but I don’t know which one you are or even if you are: I just know that yall fuckin hate me for not being what you thought I could; there’s always that mental doppelgaanger in the room – that imago we create of the person – and it usually takes a good number of years until you either outgrow that or find it was wrong all along: you’re perception of them was a gift to them, that they took for granted and pissed on. But knowing my ex-girlfriends will hate me until their dying breath is not what makes judgement tiring. It’s something deeper. And here’s where I’m starting to get annoyed, bc my perception of reality is such that to explain things the way I am able to see them, just leaves other people calling me fucking crazy. Lonely. Very.
Now I get what Jung leaner meant, when he said, “Loneliness does not come from having no people about oneself but from holding views which others find inadmissible”. Only, I would say, my loneliness does not come from being alone, but from my truths being inadmissible. I get why the Daniel Craig Bond drinks and smokes: it’s not from killing people – it’s from not being able to share the truth about your life, about what you know, what you know.
There’s a very dystopian future that’s already here. I’ve lived it. Do. It’s something like Departed. Only, they don’t threaten to erase your file bc there is no file. Nor is there the Jason Bourne safe deposit nor Swiss account belonging to you. Because you volunteered. But it’s akin to volunteering to forget, something like hypnosis. And if you think this hypnosis is some stage trick, then I would tell you that there is a lot of knowledge that has been made proprietary, aggregated within compartmentalized levels that are impossible to penetrate; for in this dystopia, they also know the personality: beyond the 16 types. So, if there is information that is a liability, it is only entrusted within networks of non-liable entities. Persons. Sure. Same thing – only, not quite. Too hard to explain. Impossible. For, these truths guarantee nothing but you made to sound crazy. No matter what you believe to be true. It’s as if the DSM is made especially as an insular model to guarantee that those who fail to conform to consensus reality will face complete ostracization at best – and institutionalization at worse. Chances are, you will be, have been institutionalized. This guarantees your invalidity. Nullifies your truth. Only, in this dystopia, you don’t go get locked up, knowing it’s part of your cover, you get locked up fearing for your goddamn life – even if only from your own depths of despair. I’ve taken myself in to be monitored so I would not hurt myself. I know something of this dynamic. It keeps you full of doubt. But eventually, you’ve seen enough firsthand to know something. You did more than connect dots – but you didn’t quite remember, for this is an impossibility. And memory is a funny thing besides.
Back to this girl. She was like me. And no one came to her place. The security at her building was bananas. I felt she was important, like I do of my exes now. 2020 vision – hindsight – hurts, can break you. I’m broken like this. And on the surface, you think this girl is just some bartender. But you know she’s on your level. And she knows you’re going to hate her, bc you will never see her again. Like fucking a Westworld robot, and she’s a robot, there to extract your DNA. And she knows she is. And you don’t. And maybe you do. But you still love her. Only, she’s not meant to love you. That would be a liability. And those have been eliminated in the time of this dystopia. But no matter the nature of your being, you’re both no more than useful idiots. Like the highschool kids the CIA recruits. Of course, if she was recruited, and remembers it, it was only bc they had typed her well enough – or programmed her well enough – to know she was never going to reveal this to anyone they didn’t want to know.
And like all crazy poor SOBs, you say ‘they’. And the societal presence in your head goes: who exactly is they? But you cannot answer, bc you do not know, so you pick the bottle up again.
Only, soon, you’re fading. And you want to type more, but the potion is strong. And you know the lights are being turned out on you; and there isn’t much time left. So you press publish, knowing that if someone out there knows what you are talking about, they will never acknowledge your truth: you don’t even know what you are talking about as much as they know what you are talking about. And it’s all very maddening, very lonely, very hard. And you’ve been through a lot. So death sounds nice. Only, you volunteered for a reason: you wanted to help. But you’re dying on the cross for it, and no one cares.
As you’re fading you feel sad rko43irjijr============================================================================================================================================================================================