Anything Anonymous

I was sitting there in that group therapy bullshit all quiet. Just listening to them. When I heard about the guy who got drunk and was kidnapped by some crazy bitch who wanted to cut off his balls and penis. But she didn’t. She got him all scared like she was gonna do it with one of those quiet crazy smiles but then all she did was make a cut above his dick and he passed out from the fear. They found him in the middle of the road with his pants down still bleeding and saved his ass just in time. But I still didn’t talk and anytime someone would open their mouth and begin with that same dead voice I just knew that somewhere out there a dove just dropped dead to the ground too.

“Hi. I’m Blah Blah. And I’m a recovering drug addict.” “Hi Blah Blah”

It was terrible. They kept talking about all these stupid fucking problems from the very beginning. Problems that were never the actual choice to do what they did when they were drunk or high but always somehow tied to it. Even before the drugs and the alcohol. Being molested by grandpa or raped by daddy and how it all culminated in that one time that their shoelace snapped when they bent down to tie it after a good day at work and next thing you know they’re back in the bottle, crying and kicking the baby and taking a scalding steam iron to the wife’s face or some other ridiculous nonsense. Medicating themselves, they all called it.

The hell am I doing here. I don’t wanna be in a room with these nuts. I’m just unhappy. Unhappy that it’s not like it is in the movies and that time keeps changing its pace depending on whether you’re having fun or not, while the ones with the microphones and the gall to write the same trite books keep telling us we can do anything and everything and how we’re all unique and special and free to pursue our individual liberty and happiness. But it’s all lies and meaningless buzzwords. Just like all that horseshit about how money can’t buy happiness sold to us for 20 bucks a pop in sky blue hardcovers with some smug asshole’s face with arms crossed on his chest. All while that same fuck sits in his dirty boxer shorts in a 1000 square foot living room with 20 foot ceilings drinking 18 year old scotch. Then again… I guess we have to believe that trite affirmation dream shit so we don’t just go slitting all our wrists at the same damn time, destroying the economy and the wealth of all the ones like him that really reap the rewards of our 80 hour workweeks. Everyone’s a delusional hypocrite. Including me. So how the fuck am I supposed to…

I just wanna go back to the days when fart machines and giant holographic bubbles made me laugh and jump around like a maniac while everyone around just giggled and encouraged it like a playful puppy. I wanna go back to when there were no cell phones. When even I was jealous of me too. When the boys and girls all liked each other. When my body was thin. In shape. Or when it was fat. But not bad fat. Just baby fat. When I wasn’t trying to make decisions and weigh tradeoffs and climb metaphorical ladders and think positive when things looked down because it all just happened on its own goddamn it.

I’m so fucking fat. And no matter how much I eat or how much I starve it all still sucks because self-improvement really is masturbation just like Tyler Durden said and every time a group of wankers gets together it’s a giant circle jerk. Hypocrisy is the enemy. And it’s impossible for someone like me to put on a set of blinders and get hot to trot with the rest of ’em. Except when I’m fucked up on something.

I’m playing with my thumbs when she calls on me to talk. “Alex?” I stop moving my thumbs but I don’t look up. “Alex? Would you like to maybe share now?” I consider saying no but hearing my own voice might make me projectile onto my neighbor. So I shake my head a little instead. “You’ve been coming here for 6 weeks now, Alex.” I keep staring past my thumbs at that linoleum tile without blinking. “Maybe you could at least introduce yourself to the group…?” The tile is off white with black streak swirl patterns. That along with the halogen lights hides any spills or stains or dirt that accumulates on the ground. “You can just sit down after you introduce yourself, you don’t have to talk.” Randomly patterned tile floors allow you to get away without having to clean the floors because it already looks dirty. An illusion to hide the accumulating dust and dirt and time. Another trick. Another lie. Like being born with wrinkles. “No?” I hate the sweetness in her giddy assvoice. Why doesn’t she just tell me to go fuck myself. To get out of here and stop shitting on their little parade and wasting all our time.

They say these things aren’t religious. But any time one of these spineless fucks gets up to talk he always eventually mentions god or his guardian angel or Jesus or something imaginary that’s defining his purpose and giving him a reason to live without drink or drug. And it makes complete sense. Because the sensitive ones are the ones who see reality for what it really is and of course, once you do, you need that imaginary reason, some baseless hope, an unrealistic dream to keep your logic at bay and your hands and feet from drowning the head and ending it all.

I consider putting on a thick southern accent and saying something ridiculous with a straight face. I just wanna thank my lord Jesus Christ for bringing us the teachings of Buddha and letting that Moses come down with them couple of commandments. They clap when the dumbfucks do it at the goddamn Oscars. But I don’t. Because I hate people. I hate their self-imposed ignorance. I hate their fear of reality. I hate their lack of awareness related to their own affectations. I hate their blubbery fat mouths and herbivore teeth. I hate their pineal glands. Their dull eyes that look but don’t see shit.

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