raydanger

Here I Am...Please Kill Me

By RayDanger

I knew I shouldn't have got out of bed this morning. I knew exactly how this day was going to play out. It's the same day that I lived yesterday and the day before that. Nothing changes. I'm stuck in my own Little Groundhog's Day. But this life is just not worth making a movie about.

This is what I do all Day, everyday. Depending how much time I waste in front of the idiot box surfing the meaningless daytime television shows, sports I don't really watch, or movies I've already seen, I head off to the park for a walk and some fresh air. at the park, I take a seat on a bench located in the far corner, far enough away to be invisible, but just enough of a view to see all the people walk by. If someone makes eye contact with me I bury my head in the book I happen to be reading at the time, probably some dead french poet who killed himself 200 years ago. Today, I happen to be reading Arthur Schopenhauer, who's glum view of the world is almost comforting.

I never talk to anybody. Mostly because nobody talks to me. I'm screaming in silence for conversation, but I never pursue anything. Most people aren't worth talking to. Instead I make up lifestories for the people who happen to get stuck in my never ending daydream. For example, this guy, and older white-male in his late 40's. He dresses like a shoe salesman or someone who works behind the counter of a clothing store. I'll call him John. Everybody's name is John. I wish my name were John. Well, John, I can tell by just looking at him, has to register with the state every time he moves because he molested a child 15 years ago. Some fucked up kid out there about my age has this guy to blame for his fucked up life. John spent a couple of years in prison before getting out on good behavior. He's really not that bad of a person, but he's been a homosexual ever since. Although he doesn't have a "partner" at the moment, he's content with eating his lunch in the park and reading books about dogs.

And here comes April, which I designate as her name because she looks like an April, red hair and pettite. She walks by very quickly. She knows that I'm watching her. To her, I'm a potential rapist. but I'm not offended. Everyone's a potential rapist. You see, April doesn't trust men anymore after having several bad boyfriends, including one that loved to beat the shit out of her. April's real problem is she started having sex to early, at the age of 14. She had her first abortion at 16, then her mom kicked her out of the house. She dropped out of HighSchool and moved in with Johnny Asshole, the girlfriend beater. Since then she can't trust men at all, and she's contemplating lesbianism. If I think about it, she looks like someone I fucked a few years ago after a show. Should I say Hi? Probably not. It might not be her.

After the park, I head to the library. Schopenhauer is an interesting read, but what can a guy who's been dead for 150 years really teach me? the library is full of interesting people. Like the bums who pass out on the couches, where I would like to sit in comfort, for a warm place to sleep. And that cross gendered security guard trying too hard to be female. Please, that deep voice gives you away every time.

When I don't feel like reading, I browse the audio visual for CD's. I came across an old Cure CD. The Cure are so fucking overrated. maybe it's because every demented girlfriend I ever had swore by the brilliance of the Cure (hardly) and that Robert Smith was sexy (not really). It's as if the Cure was their living proof that the world was fucked up. "Look at me. I'm depressed because I listen to the Cure." It's much like those little teennyboppers who would show up to watch my band play and claim they were punk because they wore Doc Martens.

The only artist of all the depressing musicians that I can really get behind is Trent Reznor. At least he rocks. Right now, I love to hate the Pixies. Everyone tells me how great there are, but I don't get it. Maybe someday, they'll start to make sense and then I can spend more time hating Coldplay or Radiohead.

There are several things that I do to myself that are self-mutilating by nature. First of all, When I'm in a car, I never wear my seat belt. that fact that I might die is why I don't. If I get into a car wreck, the last thing I want to do is survive. It's my way of tempting the gods. "Here I am...Please Kill Me!" The other is I like to starve myself to death. I have plenty of money from royalties. I could easily get a hamburger anytime I wanted. but there's something about that sick feeling of being hungry that feed's my demons. Food helps you live so fuck food. So I guess it must be true. Us humans define our own existence through our pain. It's the only way to tell if you're still alive.

Actually, the only thing I'm good at is bottling if all up inside; The pain, the hurt, the anger, the loneliness, the despair. I do my part in making this world a better place, or at least keeping it safer by not going postal on every fucker who does me wrong. You don't know how much you hurt me. You'll never know. I won't let you win.

I had a friend who was the opposite. He kicked the shit out of his dad one day and they locked him up. He had to take anger management classes. Now that he's out, he goes about his day screaming and yelling at everyone. Did those classes help? Well, he hasn't killed anybody yet. To each his own.