I am a human being. I am made up of many parts. Some of these parts are good. Others are bad. Well…most of these parts are bad. Am I defective? Can I be returned? Yes! I will dig up my original birth certificate, drive to the hospital where I was born, march right up to the customer complaint desk and demand, “Take me back!”
“But you’re 29 years-old,” the customer complaint representative says while reviewing my receipt (or birth certificate). “We only allow returns within the first year.”
“What about an even exchange?” I ask.
I stomp my feet and yell how I will NEVER shop at So and So Hospital ever again!
The representative apologizes for any inconvenience and restates the bullshit policy about how they only allow returns within…BLAH, BLAH, BLAH. I shove my receipt in my pocket and leave.
To punish this hospital for releasing defective human beings into society, I write out the bad parts of me for the world to see.
Some parts of me are HORRIBLE and SCARY and SELFISH.
I hate everyone and everything. Fuck Facebook. Fuck positivity. Fuck you for reading this blog. See how horrible I am!? I want the world to end. To explode. To fall out of orbit and disintegrate. AHHH! We all vanish. Silence.
I worry about my mind. If it will change. If I will think the same a year from now. Five years from now. Can I trust myself? Am I making the right decisions? I feel like I may lose it one day. Maybe not? Hopefully not. At a family party once, this older dementia-ridden relative tried to attack me. She came at me, arms out, like a zombie. It freaked me out. I don’t want to freak people out.
I want things my way. Just like Burger King. Have it your way. Not YOUR way. MY way. This is why I don’t want to work a normal job. I don’t want to listen to bosses or interact with co-workers or worst of all, deal with customers. I don’t want to fake smile or say “hello” or eat lunch in the break room. I don’t want to wake up before 7 am. I don’t want to do this, that, or anything unless I personally want to do it. Now give me a fucking Whopper with no onions and extra pickle.
Other parts of me are ANXIOUS and SAD and SELF-CONSCIOUS.
What am I supposed to do? Should I keep my current job? Or quit so I can focus more on writing? I don’t mind my current job. I don’t love it either. Are people supposed to love their jobs? Are people supposed to follow their dreams? I don’t even have a dream. I have an idea. Writing allows me to work from home; away from co-workers and customers. Am I going to spend my entire life avoiding people? Maybe I should give up? You’re no writer. Enter normal society. I’m going to be that 50 year-old guy pushing carts. Oh fuck…I wasted my life.
I feel sad a lot. The news makes me sad. I don’t like hearing about people dying in accidents. People getting sick. I especially don’t like hearing about people killing other people. This all makes me sad.
Dear happy people,
How come you are so happy? Do you block out the horrible things that happen in this world? Do you block out the fact that you will die one day and be forgotten about? Because that’s what happens. You die. The world keeps moving. Sure, some people will remember you, but for how long? Eventually they’ll have to forget about you, not because they want to, but because forgetting makes waking up each morning that much easier. So tell me happy people…how do you deal with this?
How do I look? Let me check the mirror. I sometimes get stuck looking in the mirror. Examining my face. I look like an idiot. If I don’t fix this idiot face issue I am not leaving the house. I don’t like my hair. I don’t like my nose. What the fuck is up with my idiot face?! When I was a kid, I would dream of changing faces. I would lie in bed at night and think of all the kids I wanted to look like and hold my hands to my face and whisper things like, “Hand powers give me Steven’s hair, Billy’s mouth, Tim’s nose…”
There are also parts of me that are DARK and UNSTABLE and SELF-DEPRECATING.
I joke about pedophiles and rapists and murderers. Creepy adults who lock their children in the basement. Feed them dog food. Have sex with them. DEATH. Violent people. Abusive people. I joke about this stuff because I don’t know how to deal with it. Sometimes people don’t get the joke. While studying improvisation, I got in some trouble after saying the word “cunt” in a scene. Or wait…the exact term was “useless cunt.” I guess I creeped some female students out. I was trying to portray a shitty guy who was talking to his son about his unfaithful mother. Didn’t quite work out.
I sometimes scream. “AHHH! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!?” I’m sure everyone does this. Right? I used to be really bad in high school and college. I would make sure my parents weren’t home and freak out for long periods of time. Just yelling at the top of my lungs. I remember it would freak my dog out. Over the years, I have cut back on the screaming. Now I do it in my car once in awhile. One time I was so upset over a bad haircut that I was yelling about how hideous I looked and how my life was over and next thing I know my mom came home.
“What’s going on in here?” she asked.
“Look at this haircut!”
I hate myself. I do everything wrong. I am a loser. Back when I played baseball I used to cry whenever I struck out. I would get so upset with myself that I wanted to die. The idea of facing my teammates was too much. I reacted the same if I got a bad grade in school. Or had a bad improvisation audition. Or wrote something that sucked. Some more positive thinking self-deprecating people say to relax, don’t kill yourself. I say killing yourself will never go away. If anything, figure out how to be a little less hard on yourself, but then again, being hard on yourself pushes you to work harder and makes you less of an asshole. So fuck it, hate yourself.
There are more parts of me. Good parts that I chose not to write about. I don’t see the point to write about the good parts. I have the good parts figured out. For instance, I am caring. I generally care for people and want them to be happy. That’s all I can say about that. The bad parts however, I don’t have quite figured out and writing about them allows me to learn more about myself. MOST importantly, writing about the bad parts allows me to expose those bastards at the hospital that refused to take me back. I am sure after reading this there are some people that feel unsafe. With that said, if you are afraid for your life and want this defective human (ME) off the streets, I suggest you give the hospital a call or write them a threatening letter.
I have posted the hospital’s contact information below:
So and So Hospital
13 Critical Condition Way
Broken, IL 60021
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