I recognize myself and I know it\’s bad. \”You\’ve not been yourself lately\” is just a flat out lie. I have been myself: just amplified, on fast forward, in Technicolor, with full stereo surround, with every sixth frame removed to make movement seem faster and more convuluted.
I\’m more me than I have been in years. Maybe more than I\’ve ever been. Me. Me memememememememe.
Shit. I\’m not liking me. I can\’t find the pause button. I can\’t seem to slow down. I\’m spilling out of myself and wondering where I went. It\’s already Friday again: another weekend. Weekends are such lame concepts to the chronically fuckedup; every day\’s the weekend when you\’re unemployed. But I used to have these huge stretches in the middle where I would languish in doctor\’s offices and try and read the newspaper and stuff like that…except I don\’t seem to be doing that now. I\’m not sure what I\’m doing now. I have no concept of time. No concept of forward or backward, then or later; everything is simply now or it is not at all.
Now, now. Me=now. I am now.
My cunt is ravenous and my mind is in agony. There\’s my Voice of Reason out on the periphery of all the banshees screaming in my head, and the Voice is starting to sob, \”Please, please, do something to put an end to all this before something really bad happens that cannot be overlooked or corrected later on. It\’s not just you/me/us loosening up after three years of living with a lover 19 years older and his 11 year old daughter. It\’s not just trying to avoid the reality of impending homelessness, ongoing poverty, a broken body and a shitass university\’s financial aid department. It\’s chemical. Yer/I\’m off my fucking rocker, chum. No shit the medication isn\’t working, because you/I passed out last night without taking it. If you can\’t even take your medication, and the construction site next door which runs from 7am-7pm six days a week makes you want to fuck everything in sight because of the steady sounds of machinery around 125bpm–\”
Here, the banshee wailing starts in: –my preferred rate of fucking, the sounds of violence, the music of breakcore, the frequency at which my pussy pulses when in heat…and therefore, of late, it is always pulsing, modulating, hardcore, swollen, dripping down my legs, and fucking hell christ oh man, I can\’t seem to make it stop.\”
Then the Voice of Reason trys to interject \”Exactly, you\’re going mad. Get out of there. Get the hot laptop off your crotch and wash the cum off your fingers and stop squeezing your goddamn leg muscles and go and get some help, even if it means having to go through psychiatric intake somewhere that still buys into Freudian female hysteria theories and they tie you down and keep you from playing with yourself, because jesus, this has to stop. It has to stop. You\’re going to rip it all off in shreds. You\’ll have shredded pussy lips.\”
(banshees) It could be a new trend in porn, the shredded pussy lips look! I could auction them off like the first porn chick who had the vaginoplasty. Big money on that sort of thing. Oh man!
(Reason) \”Shut up and get off your horny back and do something to stop!\”
I\’m fucking doomed. Everybody sing the doom song with me, altogether now!
