Thursday, March 30, 2006

The Monster Under The Bed - Volume 4

The plastic knife in my left hand carves into my chicken fried steak, while the fork in the right forces every bit of it into my mouth through the tears that have totally clouded my eyes. Perched 12 inches above the floor on the carton of toilet paper rolls, I continue to force what is commonly referred to as my favoritest food in the world down my throat because if I stop for even a minute I know I may never start again. The closet I am sitting in, so that the others can’t see this spectacle is commonplace, and today it is even more crowded than usual because I had just filled the place with all of the supplies for the next month, so on top of all of this I am quite cramped to boot, with my elbows tightly into my side. My mind is racing, telling me how pathetic I am, and how it will never get better, and of course millions of examples of my own failures go sweeping through my mind so fast that that small part of my brain that is doing whatever it can to keep me alive is barely able to keep the food going into me.

I convulse, as the sound of my own chewing echoes through my head, and the fact that my breathing alters from the runny eyes and the stuffy head that I have had for weeks makes it even more difficult. That growing piece of my brain that hates me more than anything that has ever been placed on this earth is trying to again remind me that it is worthless for someone like me to even eat, loudly screaming about how fat I have become since my injury, how I am truly unworthy. The fear of what is on the other side of that door, looming knowing that everyone out there in the world looks at me in disgust, and as I sit here eating, and making weird noises as my brain fights over whether or not the food is actually going into me or not, I weep. As normal for someone like myself I wish that I were dead, the chaos that fills my days, as I know that all of the little things that bring me some semblance of happiness are conflicting my time narrows and I can never do enough of what I want to make me happy, the brain churns to remind me and beat me down with this knowledge and it never looks like it is going to end unless I end, and yet I never do.

I’m halfway through the meal that I forced myself to straiten up and walk normal, despite my need to curl up in a ball and wait to die, out to the lunch truck to buy, and through the fake smile she reminds me that one of my favorites is there and I purchased the metallic container of tat which my mind wanted nothing to do with. The last thing that I could even tolerate at this moment is the ability to do anything that would keep me alive, but as always I have a million things that need to be done, and I must continue. I look rather silly to most on my fucking cross, as I run around like a cartoon character so that I can get a smile from someone else just to feed off of that as my own mind is incapable of producing such things, but every deal that I make with any devil comes with the cost of retribution, for I have revealed in my own levity my own inability to survive by my own will alone. I have always been able to garner the attentions purely by opening the veins and letting people stare at the pretty blood as it runs out until there is none and now where have I traveled to, but a closet, sitting on top of toilet paper crying because I don’t want to eat the food that I supposedly love, and now it is the poison that I force into me, or so the greater portion of my mind would have me believe.

I am incapable of being anything that I wish to be or so my mind would have me believe is normal, so I hide alone in my closet with the food so that I may be able to take care of those that I honestly hate almost as often as myself. I am incapable of loving anything it would appear anyway and why should anything be any different from anything else as another morsel of food is placed into my mouth as I taste one of my own tears upon it. Why should I care and the battle of the mind has taken me there now for the defenses are now weakened towards the only reason I actually do lie and for my own mind to kill it’s most cunning enemy to date. That being the other part of the mind although weakened and in pain still strong enough for some ungodly reason to fight off the encroachment of the more powerful force, and to date the victor on every battle field. I hate. I am without soul. I am the very embodiment of everything I hate in this world and I want to die. I just never do.

Have a question you want answered? Feel free to ask this sicko! Post any question you want Jeremy Crow to answer in the comments section of this blog and he will answer it totally honestly and to the best of his ability A.S.A.P. {One Question & One Answer per Blog, and no answers will be given to things that will harm others!}

Nothing that was printed here was intended to offend anyone, and if it did, you begged for it. If you believe that there are some measures that can be taken to change me, then please feel free to pray for me, and while you are at it yourself, because you read this far, and if you hated every minute of it, then you are an idiot, not me, or the other people who like what I have to say! .. JC~

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