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more grendel than birdmad
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experience has not taught me to be "well-adjusted"
no legions of lab-coated technicians or well meaning little therapists can unravel any of this. Pure goddamn folly, i say.
i know full well the "wheres" "whens" and "whys" of my particular brand of psychosis. but knowing has done nothing to alleviate it, in fact it just makes things worse.
someone accidentally built a monster but didn't finish. and since the only blueprints i have are the ones i was designed on, well the prognosis isn't very good.
and frankly if i was going to acheive salvation through chemistry i would have found it among the endless litanies of alphabet soup compounds i've introduced to my own sometimes less than willing flesh.
don't give me an inch
after all the time i've spent scraping for microns and hair's-breadths i wouldn't know what the hell to do with such an expanse, it would be like telliong a flea he's just inherited the grand-fucking-canyon and the state of montana all in one.
don't spit, i can't swim
the view from down here is what it is.
what? you want adjectives?
ponder on this a while, walking through a world that seems part poetry reading, part drunken exercise in russian_roulette.
What?
one day, i can imagine the coroner will saw open the top of my head and it truly will be hell_with_the_lid_off
some perverse re-interpretation of pandora's box, going off like a pipe-bomb with all the unskipped details replayed for all to see
my brain is the black box on an aircraft designed strictly for crashing
and if i have a soul, then that's the sleepy drunken fuck whose sitting there at the wheel
there it is.
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