It has been days, weeks, months, and I've yet to sink my nails into the game I'm playing. My therapist is lying to me, talking to me. Everything's crumbling. Everything is crumbling, just like my sanity, just like my mind, just like my whole life after the incident which no one want's to talk about. I'm from a whole line of people who don't give a fuck! It's useless, just like me. Just like the branches which hold the portraits of my elders, of the people who raised and birthed me, of the people who set me up for disappointment and let me go into this God awful world...
They're right when they say the real world is a tough place. I'm on so much medication it's hard to think half the time. Stan Marsh, is my name. I bite my tongue to remember it. I like myself. At least, I think I do. Right? Listen to this word of advice I have for you. Trust no one. Trust no one, not even those whom you consider to be your closest friends. Because they aren't. They're manipulative, and they'll spit every putrid thing you've thought about them right back into your face. What do I do without friends? What do I do without two men to punch myself in the face over? Right, right. Craig and Kenny. They're cool. They're around. They caught on, they know! All because I'm stupid and I got a tooth knocked out and I'm on some type of anesthetic or I was and I spilled some stuff and they thought it was funny and now I'm a laughing stock. I'm a laughing stock, aren't I? I always will be.
For the time I was conked out and haven't talked to you guys, I've gotten a few messages I wanted to discuss. Share, open, a little bit of everything. My friend, Kyle, messaged me. I didn't think he was still alive. You see, around fifteen years of age, Kyle got into a bad car accident that led him into having to use a wheelchair for the rest of his seemingly boring life. That was three years ago. Cartman was driving, we were all there. Of course, Cartman and Kyle's small feud couldn't hold for the moment as we were turning, Cartman wasn't paying enough attention and. Boom. My head was bleeding. I was covered in blood that was not mine, but I couldn't-I can't figure out whose it was. It wasn't Kyle's nor Cartman's. Was Kenny with us? My head hurts.
He said, "Hey, Stan, long time no talk, dude. I'm doing good in case you were wondering. How are you? Still seeing your therapist, I hope?"
How do I respond to that. I'm pathetic, I could barely even muster up a sentiment that would pin his sympathy for me as kids. Life is rough and I don't want to live in it anymore but what other choice do I have. I want to commit a murder, I want to rob a store! I'm already going to Hell, what more am I looking for in this world? I need to contact Craig, or Clyde, or even Kenny for Jesus Christ's sake. I need to...do things that I want to do instead of being super glued to a computer chair all day.
But it's not going to happen.
I'll always be pathetic. I'll always be stuck on the same things. My head will always be illuminated by a screen with many pictures and colors moving off of it. I'll always be too lazy to shower or shave and my therapist will always comment on how I need to. She'll always comment on how I need to boost my pills or how I look worse and worse and worse and worse and worse every single time I visit her old ass. I might as well write a shitty BOTDF-esque song and dwell in my problems as an emo kid who just can't find his sole purpose in the world. Because he doesn't have one. I'll take a swig of whiskey to that one, I will, I'll never hear the end of it in my hollow mind from the voices that plague it. They're screeching and whispering and hey, look, what's in the fridge?
My self confidence and general control of what I do, is what. I think this every time I drink. They say pills don't mix well with alcohol, but if anything, I feel better than I have in so many years when I do it. Though, I get a wicked nasty hangover afterwords, and my stomach isn't as happy as it could be whenever I wake up. One day I'm going to die like that and I'm so prepared for it. I even have a suicide note and everything, though it's hidden in some place I forgot about. Maybe they'll raid my room whenever I die and happen to find it. Will it make my mom, or Shelly, happier? Maybe, probably, most likely. I'll be down in Hell, getting tortured and throwing massive parties at Satan's pad. I mean, I am kind of part hellspawn after all. You know that whole shenanigan possession-type-of-deal? That was crazy. I have nightmares about it.
"Whoa, hey, dude! I'm fine as well...a lot better than before, you know? Yeah, still seeing the same old shitty therapist. Anything new?" Is what I type to Kyle. I am holding a beer in one hand and a smirk is on my face and my other hand is calmly placed on the keyboard. He read the message. Now he is typing. I turn off my computer before I could see anything else.
That is for another day.