Jenny fell in the river and drowned three years ago. I still haven’t realized she won’t be pulling herself to shore. She took my virginity to the grave. And falling in love is one argument away from falling to your death. All of my previous girlfriends have driven a Ford Taurus and all have had terrible taste men. My neurotransmitters fall in a forest and nobody hears them. You know how when you buy a carton of cigarettes and it feels like they will be there forever so you smoke more than you usually would, just because you have the resources right in front of you—that’s how I burned through my dopamine. This afternoon my addiction doctor told me I’m a rare case of recovery, most people don’t do this well, he said. I’m just too old to come down anymore, I said back to him while holding a National Geographic magazine about rising sea levels. The Statue of Liberty was trying to keep her head above water on the cover. Just yesterday I was young. Today I sit on my hand to put it to sleep, then I place it on my shoulder to feel the touch of someone else. I haven’t felt attractive since my first camera phone. I haven’t taken a dick pic since I started taking Celexa. Why can’t we live in a world where Haley Joe Osmet never gets old? People try not to stay lonely for very long even if their partner makes them more miserable than being alone. As I child I believed I would die by quicksand and that people in the position of power—doctors, parents, the president, cops, teachers—all knew more than me, they knew what was going on, they spoke the truth, they had this shit handled. But now I believe in quicksand as much as I believe in anybody called human. Wisdom is when you realize people can only be people and nothing more. And part of people is the evil part—the ego, the greed, the baby pictures. I hope for our sake that the Statue of Liberty can swim.
I want to write something relevant. I want this headache to go away. I want to read inspirational quotes by anonymous people so I can be inspired to be a nobody. The hum of the universe is in D flat, I am tone deaf, clueless in the big bang. Universe fucked—luminous spheres of plasma held together by their own gravity. Deep space, the back of your throat— birthing legions of stars like rabbits fucking in a hutch. So many stars to reach for but I don’t —I might get burned. Instead I take a shit while I look through a small book of useless things. There is a picture of the open road and I watch myself go down it, alone. My chronic wanderlust is stirred by half-buried Cadillacs and the world’s biggest jack rabbit, a dead bird belly up in the rain. We are bouncing on the immense blue sky, barely tethered—tumbleweeds of nerve endings and teeth. We don’t know anything. The sky is what should be worshiped, not the religions that live in it. From the black hole we came out ironic, kicking and breathing and screaming, finally each of us settled on a unique disease. By the luck of the draw I got depression, anxiety and addiction. Low self-esteem isn’t a disease, it’s just in your head. Evolution requires rubber bones and the ability to reason. Pretend you are beautiful until you are, or stay below the river bank where the stars are hazy—a finned creature without lungs