I sat there and watched it die

 

I woke up yesterday morning to a cockroach crawling on my bedroom floor, it couldn’t have been larger than one segment of my thumb but I was so disgusted I ran out to the kitchen to grab the spray can of cockroach killer and just let it rip barely an inch away from the creature. It was probably the cockroach equivalent of acid rain, and I watched it. I watched it being doused in the microscopic droplets of its demise; it immediately recoiled and flung itself through the open door into a corner of my closet, scrambling against the magazine-lined floor for any kind of relief. It got none, by then I was already smothering it with unnecessary spritzes of the aerosol — instead I took this opportunity to sit myself down, tucking in my legs to watch the kill unfold. It twitched and shuddered and like in a Sunday morning cartoon, then promptly rolled over, the muscles in its legs twitching comically. It was a small one but I could see the clearly defined hairs on its legs, its rust-colored exoskeleton shiny and wet with poison. Its feelers and antennae no longer straight and stiff, curled up like a fallen hair from a head. Spasms ran through it for a good three minutes. Was it fighting for life? Probably not — I read somewhere that insects don’t feel pain; the muscle spasms were just a biological reaction to the paralyzing agents in the spray, or whatever. Somehow knowing this took the smugness and fun out of watching it squirm. But what did the cockroach ever do to me, anyway, to deserve to die? Just knowing that it existed and was in my vicinity was enough for me to send it to the guillotine.

I remember once when I was in primary school I caught a flying insect and held it down on my paper with the tip of a mechanical pencil. Using another, I ripped its right wing off. Did I feel guilty then?

When it stopped moving I bundled it up with a wad of toilet paper. I unceremoniously crushed it in my palm as I left the room — I felt the cracking of its exoskeleton — then tossed it in the toilet bowl and flushed. I washed my hands twice. Somehow they still felt dirty.

I returned to my room, greeted by the lingering smell of pesticide and my questionable guilt. I knew I could air the room to get rid of the former.

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thunder and lightning

It’s raining right now. More accurately, there’s a thunderstorm raging right outside my window.

I was only alerted to it by the faint whistling of wind between the cracks in my window panes — I panicked and dropped my 3DS and rushed to check if the windows of my room were closed properly (they were) as the rain greeted me like a splendid crash of cymbals.

I stared out the window for a few minutes as I realized I was witnessing the introductory tunes of a thunderstorm. A cartoon I watched as a kid said you could gauge the distance of the storm from your current location by measuring the interval between lightning and thunder. Light travels faster than sound, or something like that… I still don’t understand it, really.

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand… seven thousand, eight thousand. It’s pretty far away, I guess.

I thought I’d be able to catch a really crisp bolt of lightning, splitting the sky and scattering sparks of electricity everywhere as thunder rumbled in its wake. No such luck. My windows were murky and fogged up, the lightning was just a brief flash of light that lit up the sky ever so often. Pitch black became a murky gray. Not really anything remarkable.

One thousand, two thousand, three th– oh. Guess it’s close.

A part of me wanted to throw open the window. To see if I could really feel the electricity in the air like in that Stephen King novel* I got for my second anniversary gift. To let a gust of cold air whip through my room and splatter my bedsheets with rain. It crossed my mind again and again… like a bolt of lightning. Lighting up the recesses of my mind, fogged up like a window from muddled thoughts and stifled feelings.

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand.

What’s that phrase people like to use — lightning never strikes the same place twice? The cacophony outside my window was beginning to subside and so were my thoughts of impulsive window-opening and storm-chasing.

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand… fuck it, there’s no point in counting anymore.

Maybe I was just meant to be stuck inside this box. Seeing nothing but subdued lights in the sky and hearing nothing but ominous, approaching growls.

They still leave me in the end.

(*Revival by Stephen King. Great read. A little draggy in the middle.)

She doesn’t hate you

But what if I hate her? I’ve never even really known her.

I don’t hate her, at least, that’s how I think I feel about her.

What I hate is… I hate how I feel whenever I look at her. I hate how I feel when I see someone who knows her I hate how I feel when someone even mentions her even when they don’t say her name I know, why do I know who they’re talking about? It’s her

“She’s so gorgeous. And tall and skinny and athletic and so sweet she’s so nice and has so many friends… hey, are you even listening to me?”

She’s gorgeous, and I look in the mirror some days and claw at my own face and arms until I see red. Not deep enough to leave visible scars — how pathetic, if you want to hurt yourself why not go all the way? Fucking coward.

She’s tall and skinny, and I like to grab at the skin around my stomach and arms and thighs and pull as hard as I can hoping they’ll eventually necrotise and fall off but I always stop before they turn purple, what a fucking weakling.

She’s so sweet and so nice and has so many friends, and I’m here writing this wallowing in my own fifty percent hatred, fifty percent self-loathing, a whole hundred percent of fucking inadequacy

I can’t help but laugh a bit at how petty this is but the anxiety — oh, the anxiety — it’s so real I find myself just rocking back and forth in my own bed thinking about it

I can’t talk to your friends. I can’t be seen with your friends. If I appear, and she’s there, they’ll ask you to break up with me. Obviously you’re settling for less — look at her, look at how he’s got her, how dare you even consider being with this goddamn slug. It’s an insult to you. I just turn up so they can’t say this to your face — they’ll spare me and just whisper about it behind my back. At least, then, I can pretend this doesn’t exist.

Hey, are you reading this? Do you think I’m crazy now? Sometimes I think I do have the potential to go completely batshit insane and fuck things up — I’m just waiting for the right moment, for the last straw, for the pin to drop, for the fucking pot to boil over and I’ll be there, the stew of my self-hatred and shitty personality overflowing onto your pristine ceramic stovetop bubbling off the ledge like viscous sewage and burning your toes

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jesus christ i am so pathetic

A Memory

(This is a true story.)

I remember the first time I felt like killing myself.

I remember it all. I remember showing up unannounced in the middle of the first week of secondary school, a twelve year old yanked from one new place to another, every girl in class staring me down like a stranger, an alien. I remember checking my hand-me-down mobile phone underneath the desk, searching for reassurance as I trembled alone at the back of the class,  the one odd in columns and columns of evens, not knowing who I could turn to. I remember not knowing if anyone wanted me there in the first place. I remember the girl at the neighboring desk shot me an angry glare and snapped at me to stop. I complied.

I remember I wanted to cry.

I remember fucking up in English class in the second week by forgetting my homework. I remember apologizing to the teacher and saying I would stay back after class to do it. I remember her saying she didn’t care if I did. I remember her telling me to see her after school.

I remember walking back to the classroom after the bell rang, shaking like a leaf. I remember her beady eyes and condescending stare. I remember her asking me what was wrong with me. I remember her impatient scowl, her restlessly twitching leg, her beady, beady eyes as she leant back in her chair and looked at me. I remember her telling me I had an attitude problem. I remember her yelling at me that I had an attitude problem. I remember her asking me which primary school I came from. I remember the smirk on her face when I gave my response, I remember her spitting at me that it was no wonder I couldn’t get into the top secondary school and ended up here. I remember her telling me I had an attitude problem. I don’t remember what happened afterwards because my vision was blurry. I think I remember her getting up and leaving.

I remember the classroom was dark. I remember the fans were off and the air was still. I remember packing my bag. I remember thinking that I couldn’t feel my hands and feet.

I remember crying in the toilet for an hour.

I remember a girl seeing me emerge from the toilet with bloodshot eyes. I remember her asking me if I was okay. I remember saying that I was fine. I remember walking away sniffing. I remember letting a few rogue tears escape.

I remember fucking up again in English class. I remember my presentation partner telling the teacher that I didn’t do any work. I remember that I couldn’t do any because my partner did everything and had left nothing for me to do. I remember not saying anything because I didn’t know what to say. I remember the teacher announcing it to the entire class. I remember her telling me to do another presentation alone. I remember I was the only one who had to present alone. I remember doing the presentation a week later. I remember wanting to cry as I was doing it. I remember the class looking at me cold eyes.

I remember no one wanting to include me in their group for a Geography project. I remember not wanting to ask, anyway. I remembered the class looking at me with cold eyes. I remember saying I was in some other person’s group when the teacher asked about it when the project was done. I remember feeling guilty. I remember getting away with it. I remember secretly feeling relieved.

I remember my parents being called for a meeting with my teachers. I remember my dad asking me when he got home, “is it true you have no friends in class?” I remember the look of astonishment he had on his face. I don’t remember what I said in response. I remember feeling like a disappointment.

I remember wanting to die rather than go back to school over the summer holiday. I don’t remember what I actually did.

I remember the first day of the second semester. I remember my form teacher finally moving someone I could call a friend to the back so she could sit with me. I remember talking to her about Vampire Knight. I remember her introducing me to her friends outside of class. I remember having fun. I remember feeling accepted.

I still remember that bitch telling me I had an attitude problem.

I remember seeing her ugly face as I was studying for the national exams, three years later. I remember hearing her filthy words as I pored over my books. I remember tears threatening to fill my eyes and the plunge in my stomach whenever I thought about it. I remember telling myself that I had an attitude problem, but it didn’t fucking matter.

I remember getting a perfect score for the exams.

I remember seeing my name up on the notice boards in school. I remember being seventh on the list of top scorers. I remember the list was in Monotype Corsiva.

I remember wondering if she ever saw my name, or if she even remembered me, as I stared at the laminated yellow paper held in place by colored push pins on green felt.

I remember telling myself that it didn’t matter.

I remember that I had won.

The Proper Response

“Why are you so cynical?”

Getting asked this question is probably one of the most annoying things on this earth. Why are you so happy? I’m pretty sure you can’t give me a satisfactory answer either. Fuck right off optimists, I don’t need any sunshine on my parade.

This year I found myself making a ton of jokes about my future suicide and death. I know, suicide isn’t something trivial to joke about — if someone I was close to told me they wanted to off themselves I’d probably go full hypocrite and dissuade them from doing so — but holy shit sometimes it feels so disgusting and horrible to be alive my entire existence just becomes a joke in my eyes. Have you ever cried so hard you started laughing at just how pathetic you are?

There’s just something very sick about the idea where you pour your entire heart out to someone describing whatever horrors you’re experiencing internally, only to be told that it’s “all in your head, stop thinking so much” or “you’re imagining things, lighten up”. I’ve heard these phrases so many times now that when I pick up the first syllables I just roll my eyes and shut the fuck up. How real must my pain and suffering be before it is valid in the eyes of others who are trying to offer some generic, vague notion of “moral support”? Do I need scars on my arms or self-inflicted bruises before anyone even attempts to believe anything I’m saying, despite me already shaking off all my pride by relaying this information like a snail fucking exploding out of its shell and lying belly-up: “PLEASE POUR SALT ON ME!” People don’t understand that sometimes what we’re looking for isn’t comfort or a ray of hope but just some goddamn understanding. No, “everyone else also feels the same way” doesn’t count — it in fact has the opposite effect because the receiver is now wondering how other people struggle with the same problems yet still have their lives in order.

So what should you say when someone lets you in and tells you about their demons?

Don’t fucking question them. If they feel that way then chances are nothing you say will change their mind. Instead tell them something neutral and unoffensive like “if you want to talk about it I’m here” or “lmao damn wanna dota?”

And people who are fucked up on the inside like I am — seek the kind of support that feels best for you. If compliments make your day, cool. If you just need a listening ear, fine. Just know that while support from your social circle can aid in getting your shit together the main effort comes from you as an individual. And I’m not the very best person to ask about that.

I think less about dying now, unless dying because of this mountain of schoolwork counts.

It’s a whole lot better than wanting to jump off a building.

Become

Like re-reading a Stephen King novel, I skim every line of text to make sure I don’t miss the goriest bits — in this case the words that sicken me the most. Gross displays of affection that cause my stomach to clench queasily and numb my extremities. When did I ever become so repulsed by what others good feelings? Jealousy or discontent or just my insecurity rippling like the wobbling film over a cup just about to overflow? I was never the romantic type, neither was I completely pragmatic. I wonder why I feel so goddamn fucked up. 20 years old but I still don’t know anything about myself except hatred and self-loathing, with a heaping spoonful of cowardice and avoidance to boot. Some days I rack my brains to figure out if there even is anything positive about me at all that people like — I’m nice, someone (everyone) said, the cop-out answer for “actually, I don’t even know you”. It’s so awful that the word “nice” reads as an insult to me now, a synonym for “bland” or “boring”. I want to be passionate, daring, witty, original, all of these things that you cannot be convincing at if you aren’t naturally so — and I am not.

Breaking the silence

It’s been a hectic few months. Whoever’s still reading my blog, thanks for listening. It’s just good to put my thoughts out there. It’s good to know that someone’s listening. It’s good.

Real life and school — I’m starting to become really, really disillusioned, or maybe I was already in the beginning and it’s just beginning to show itself as my commitments and deadlines creep closer and suffocate me. Well, what do. I dig my own graves (enough to fill a graveyard by now, most likely) with my incessant procrastination and laziness. At least I know one thing — I always make it through in the end.

Probably because I’m a coward that’s still afraid of authority and stepping out of my comfort zone and too much of a fucking pussy to kill myself, but that’s a rant for another day. I wish I could give less fucks, but apparently my lack of fuck-giving is extremely selective. I guess that’s a good thing? I don’t know.

So yeah I’m here to announce my new blog, a joint game review site with Yx:

http://player1and2.wordpress.com

We’re still short on articles and don’t have a strict schedule or a nice layout but we plan on fixing that soon.

I used to think that I only had one major ambition — make games — but now I’m considering other options in my pool of future occupations. Games journalism or critique could be fun. I quite like writing opinion pieces, especially about video games. Hopefully this blog helps me develop my writing skills. I’ve been praised for my style, but I’m not sure if it’s entirely suitable for the content I plan on covering.

So just to end off this random post because I need to do laundry, here’s a list of things I wish to accomplish in the next few months.

1. Scrape through the semester (hopefully not just by the skin of my teeth)
2. Write more
3. Draw more
4. Give less fucks

I’ll rant here more often too, if I can find the time. Peace.