Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now

The Smiths

Haven't blogged in a while.  There's at least two reasons for that.   First of all, I'm a complete mess, and, secondly, I have a job.  I got a job working for a major home-improvement chain store.  I'm still facing major credit card debt.  I might have to file for bankruptcy if I can't get a loan to pay off these credit cards.  But this job is difficult to tolerate.  To do what I'm doing, full-time, is a bit of a nightmare, but, as I and others have mentioned before, life itself is pretty much a nightmare.  I really have to tough it out to make it through the day.  To me, work has become an endurance challenge.  It's driving me crazier than I already am.

Here's a new section on the Bald Vegan!  It's called "thoughts."  I hope you like it!

I"m sure that life sucks.  Sometimes, when I'm in the midst of a deep depression, I remind myself that I can commit suicide anytime I want to, and it cheers me up a little.

I don't' believe in heaven, but I believe in hell, and this it it.  This planet has a history of violence that is staggering in its scope.

I'm jealous of the dead.

After death, even soft, healthy skin will rot.

That's thoughts for this week.  I'll end with a poem for a poet.

Who am I?
How do others see me?
How do I see myself?
What do others think of me?
Is that really me in the mirror?
Do I exist?
Will anyone miss me when I'm gone?

Human

 
It occurred to me that I'm not good at being a human being.  I don't like doing many of the things that humans do: driving a car, putting on socks,  putting on shoes, putting on shirts, putting on pants, putting on underwear, taking those things off again, showering, flossing, brushing my teeth, making coffee, cooking, cleaning, dealing with shitty people, receiving bills, paying bills, seeing commercials, seeing ads, working at shitty jobs, applying for shitty jobs, doing laundry, and so on.  I'm not good at making decisions.  When you're a human, there are so many choices to make.  There are so many things to remember.  It's too complicated.
I'm much more of an animal.  I'm good at eating and lying around.  Of course I believe that humans are animals; we have so many things in common with them.  We just happen to be the worst, most destructive, animals to ever walk the Earth.  It's quite possible I'll soon be forced to live like an animal: outside.  Suicide is also an option.  Sometimes I think I'd like to leave this society, but it's hard to imagine life without toilet paper and ass washing.  I know I mentioned I don't like showers, and it's true, but they, like many things, are a necessary evil.
I want to make clear that even though I object to working at any of these places, because they serve meat, I applied for jobs there anyway, becasue I was trying to SURVIVE: McDonald's, Panera Bread, and DiBella's Subs.  I didn't hear back from any of them: no interest whatsoever.  Where's the hope?

Poor Glenny

The cover of American Loser

Poor Glenny only wants a dog and a house, but he can't afford either, because he doesn't have a job, which is something else he wants, but, no matter how many times he tries, no one will give him one.

My back is jacked.
My feet hurt.
My ears are ringing.
There's regular pain in my knees.
My eyesight's failing.
My brain wants to kill me.
It's only going to get worse.

Ever since I watched that documentary about Kurt Cobain, I've been listening to a lot of Nirvana.  I think part of the reason is that, despite what he's accomplished, I needn't be jealous of him.  He's dead.  We can't take it with us.  It's hard to be reminded, on a daily basis, that so many people are doing so well while I'm so miserable and contemplating suicide every day.  Cobain is also a reminder that suicide is an option: a real possibility.  By now, I know I'm not going to wake up happy; I never do.    

Kurt Cobain's Suicide Note

(I, not Cobain, am responsible for highlighting (bold) words.)
"To Boddah
Speaking from the tongue of an experienced simpleton who obviously would rather be an emasculated, infantile complain-ee. This note should be pretty easy to understand.
All the warnings from the punk rock 101 courses over the years, since my first introduction to the, shall we say, ethics involved with independence and the embracement of your community has proven to be very true. I haven't felt the excitement of listening to as well as creating music along with reading and writing for too many years now. I feel guity beyond words about these things.
For example when we're back stage and the lights go out and the manic roar of the crowds begins., it doesn't affect me the way in which it did for Freddie Mercury, who seemed to love, relish in the the love and adoration from the crowd which is something I totally admire and envy. The fact is, I can't fool you, any one of you. It simply isn't fair to you or me. The worst crime I can think of would be to rip people off by faking it and pretending as if I'm having 100% fun. Sometimes I feel as if I should have a punch-in time clock before I walk out on stage. I've tried everything within my power to appreciate it (and I do,God, believe me I do, but it's not enough). I appreciate the fact that I and we have affected and entertained a lot of people. It must be one of those narcissists who only appreciate things when they're gone. I'm too sensitive. I need to be slightly numb in order to regain the enthusiasms I once had as a child.
On our last 3 tours, I've had a much better appreciation for all the people I've known personally, and as fans of our music, but I still can't get over the frustration, the guilt and empathy I have for everyone. There's good in all of us and I think I simply love people too much, so much that it makes me feel too fucking sad. The sad little, sensitive, unappreciative, Pisces, Jesus man. Why don't you just enjoy it? I don't know!
I have a goddess of a wife who sweats ambition and empathy and a daughter who reminds me too much of what i used to be, full of love and joy, kissing every person she meets because everyone is good and will do her no harm. And that terrifies me to the point to where I can barely function. I can't stand the thought of Frances becoming the miserable, self-destructive, death rocker that I've become.
I have it good, very good, and I'm grateful, but since the age of seven, I've become hateful towards all humans in general. Only because it seems so easy for people to get along that have empathy. Only because I love and feel sorry for people too much I guess.
Thank you all from the pit of my burning, nauseous stomach for your letters and concern during the past years. I'm too much of an erratic, moody baby! I don't have the passion anymore, and so remember, it's better to burn out than to fade away.
Peace, love, empathy.
Kurt Cobain
Frances and Courtney, I'll be at your alter.
Please keep going Courtney, for Frances.
For her life, which will be so much happier without me.

I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU!"

Life is Shit

Life is shit: literally.  I don't know about you, but I shit multiple times every day.  I hate doing it every time.  Life is a cruel joke.  We do the same shit every day.  It's so boring.
I have become convinced that it is an act of cruelty for a person to bring people or animals into this fucked-up world.  I hate life.  I want to die.  I'd gladly take a pill if it would kill me, peacefully and painlessly, in my sleep tonight.  But if I kill myself, it will probably be much more painful, and messy, than that.
Should I chug antifreeze? 

Should I jump?
 
Should I hang?

Perhaps a combination of antifreeze and jumping or hanging.  Maybe the antifreeze will give me the courage I need to jump or hang myself.  Once I drink enough antifreeze, I'm fucked.  I might as well jump or hang.
I've been listening to a lot of Nirvana lately.  I recently saw a documentary about Kurt Cobain called Montage of Heck.  I've lived a lot longer than he did.  I feel it too.  What does it say about life that he killed himself as a wealthy 27-year-old rock star? 

Iron Maiden

Another one of my favorite album covers.

Kreator

This song isn't on this album, but this is one of my favorite album covers.

Love Us Or Hate Us (Kreator song)

Don't try to tell us what is right for us
We don't give a fuck anyway
Don't try to steal imagination from us
Things we believe, we will never betray

Those who have the power to
Suck us dry, throw us away
Those who never could create
Destroy the music of today
Those devoid of any feeling
Those who make the compromise
Betray themselves to make a deal
Sell their soul at any price

Sounds without feeling, energy of agressions
From money hungry brains and not from the heart
Fortune, fame and glory are their obsessions
Salesman, deaf to music, blind to art,

No honesty, just sterility a cautious sound they make
Without creativity it's still the same
As another age when they took the words
Of truth and put them to a flame

No more
Love us or hate us
No more
Love us or hate us

Some have eyes and still can't see
Their plastic noise is anything but music to me
Mechanized and computerized
Switch off your brain and make sounds that dehumanize

No more
Love us or hate us
No more
Love us or hate us

Don't try to take our dreams away from us
We will never be like you
Love us or hate us, it doesn't matter to me
We don't want to be a part of this sick society

Those who have a passion to
Will never change our way of life
We may not think the way you do
But we know that we are right
Those who want to form a world
Of friends and monotony
Will have to do it without us
'Cause we always be free

One Foot in the Grave

 
Living life with one foot in the grave is complicated.  I think about suicide every day.  When you think you might be committing suicide in the near future, it can make it difficult to plan ahead.  Why should I do this or that thing I don't want to do if I'm gong to kill myself soon?  Why should I clean if I don't want to (and I never want to)?  Why should I apply to a job that I don't really want?  Why should I take shit from someone?  Why not let them have it (verbally, not physically)?  Because I might not have the balls to kill myself.  It's harder than it may seem.  Although, you can change that.  There recently was a double murder suicide fairly close to the city where I live.  This guy killed his ex-girlfriend and her current boyfriend with a knife.  Then he killed himself with the knife.  Suicide by knife is not how I would do it, but the thought of going to prison for the rest of his life probably made it easier for him to do it.
Living with a foot in the grave affects what I post on this blog.  Should I hold on to stuff, because I might be able to publish it in the future for money?  Some publishers aren't interested in anything that's been published previously elsewhere: even on a little blog like this one.  Should I not hold back and post everything, because my living days are numbered?
I hope this blog will help people understand what it's like to have depression.  It's brutal.  It's hard to put into words how miserable I am.  Life feels like a prison, and death seems like freedom.  Some would consider all this talk about suicide, coming from someone who's alive, to be bullshit.  However, I have attempted suicide, which means I'm in a high-risk group to eventually complete the act  Years ago, I bought a how-to-commit-suicide book, which mentioned the various methods: how successful they are, how much pain is involved, etc.  If I kill myself, then all this hoopla about suicide will have been validated.  And if I don't, then hopefully I've helped people understand what it's like to have depression.            

Meaningless Existence

That's what mine is.  I wasn't brought into this world because I was wanted; I was a mistake.  My mother literally called me that one day.  She said I was a mistake.  Interesting that she would call me a mistake when I didn't make the mistake.  But my mother is like so many adults; she refuses to take responsibility for anything.  Every mistake she makes is somehow someone else's fault.  According to her, it wasn't her fault she got knocked up as a teen, it was my father's.  He promised to pull out, but he didn't.
I sink lower and lower.  If I don't land a job soon, the money I can borrow from my credit card will run out.  I'm trying.  I'm trying to survive, even though, with depression and OCD, I don't see many reasons to.  Everyday, I'm thinking of ways to kill myself that will succeed without causing me too much pain.  Today I did laundry.  If I wasn't considering suicide, I would not have laundered a particular pair of pants.  These pants are workout pants, and they're really not my thing.  They're spandex-like.  I washed them, because I thought they'd be good for hanging myself in.  Perhaps they could catch my shit that would doubtlessly emanate from my ass after I died.  Why care about shit on the carpet when you're dead? you might ask.  What if I failed, and I didn't die, but I shit the carpet?
There is so much to write: so much to express.  But it really seems like  time is running out for me.        

Tragedy

 
I'll begin with the animals.  Innumerable animal lives have been tragic.  Humans have played a huge part in that: using them any way they see fit.  How many cows would have been great mothers, but weren't given a chance, because their calves were taken away shortly after birth, so people could take the milk instead?  How many pigs, chickens, and turkeys would have made great pets?  I've seen pigs that were pets (on TV).  I saw a pig push a soccer ball around.  I saw a pig put a toy back in the toy box once she was finished with it.  I have cuddled with pigs and given them belly rubs.  When I began to rub their bellies, they acted just like dogs do; they rolled onto their sides so they could get proper belly rubs.  Of course, most pigs aren't pets.  Many of them are kept in gestation crates, where they have no room to walk anywhere, or even turn around.  That's their reality until it's time to be murdered.  Hens make great pets too.  There's an organization called HenPower, which brings hens to senior citizens living in nursing homes.  Hens make great pets, because they're soft, and they don't bite (even though they have every right to bite people considering what we've done to them).  Turkeys have made great pets too.  I saw one running with the family dog and a human friend.  How many great animal friendships would have developed if we hadn't separated them for our own selfish reasons?  The way people have treated countless animals is horrible: denying them a chance to live natural, happy, peaceful lives.
Then there are people who have lived tragic lives.  The cemeteries are full of them.  So many people had so much promise, but life didn't treat them fairly.  As I've mentioned before, people come from 3 basic sorts of families: those that are abusive, those that are unsupportive, and those that are very helpful.  When ti comes to people who have lived tragic lives, none immediately come to mind. That's because many of the lucky people are the rich and famous ones.  Donald Trump had a rich daddy.  I used to act; people told me I was good at it.  So I can't help focusing on actors who have made it as a result of nepotism: Charlie Sheen, George Clooney, and Angelina Jolie are only a few of them.  I could go on and on with that list.
I can't help thinking that my life will end in tragedy: for me, a big one, but, for the world, it wouldn't even register.  I've been told that I'm funny.  I know I haven't shown that side here.  But I've written a lot of comedic material.  Lately, I've been reviewing it and trying to organize it.  I may not have time to do anything with it.  Time, and money, is running out for me.  It turns out that time really is money. When my credit card won't let me have any more cash advances, I'm looking at homelessness or suicide.        
I keep trying to find a job.  I recently "tried out" for a job as a pants presser in a dry cleaner shop.  I was shown how to do it.  It involved 2 machines and an iron.  I dressed up; I shouldn't have.  It was hot there.  Apparently, I didn't do very well.  They didn't call me back.  I tried my hardest, though.  First prize, you live.  Second prize, you die.             

Rough Week

 
I was so sure I wasn't afraid of death, but, apparently, I am.  I sort of tried to hang myself.  It didn't work out.  I felt so claustrophobic with that noose around my neck.  Also, I lack the engineering ability, or determination, to hang myself in my home (it seems).  If one is determined enough, one can hang oneself from a doorknob.  I suppose I'm not determined enough (yet).
So, as previously mentioned, jumping was next on my mind.  I walked to the bridge of death.  First, I prepared: not only online, but with a note and as far as what I had on me.  What if I almost jumped, but didn't, and, as a result, stuff I needed fell out of my pockets and into the river?  So I walked to the bridge and looked down.  It really would be a miracle if I, or anyone else, survived jumping from the bridge and onto the river rocks below.  I had doubts about being able to do it prior to arriving there.  But once I looked down, I was done.  The thought of falling that distance was so f*cking scary.  I walked home.
Since then, I've been thinking of other methods.  Although, all in all, today was a pretty good day.  They always start badly.  I hate waking up.  I really wish I could just die, peacefully and painlessly, in my sleep.  Again, exercise really helped my mood.  It can change things for the better.
So I'm alive for now.  I really hate my parents.  They thoughtlessly brought me into this world, and this is the sort of shit I have to deal with as a result.