I will go unforgiving into that last long goodnight.
Numb from years of self-inflicted chemical abuses; numb from the crushing exhaustion born bearing the brunt of a lifetime’s worth of traumas. Carrying the accompaniment of inebriated embarrassments; burdened with the ingestion of all the self-medicating solutions. The temporary ones that sometimes seemed to work—right up until when they didn’t.
Because brains are too often wired to demand increasingly stimulating dosages. And I religiously pushed those boundaries—it was the only place left for me to worship as I inevitably took my place amongst the dirtbag congregation of the damned.
Somehow always left disappointed. Endlessly craving anything potent enough to take away all the hurt; endlessly seeking something caustic enough to level out all the scars. Desperately looking for anything left fitting to stuff inside all the holes. Because something had to fill those gaps glaring back at the shaking skeleton in the morning mirror.
The only lasting comfort I ever found was in the realization that everything only ever ends up being temporary, anyway. A harsh lesson learned amongst that tragic sectarian hatred passed down through the Irish generations; a harsh lesson learned standing on plastic grass carefully arranged beside too many fucking early graves.
So I guess it doesn’t even really matter who is doing what.
Because it’s not like anyone ever really noticed me. And that is okay. Not everyone is born to be the hero—someone had to be labeled the villain. That’s just the nature of the story. And I was born flawed into that pedigree of broken imperfection. Because the world constantly demands payment to balance the scales. And there is fuck all you can actually do about it.
So it’s better to lean into the suck from the very beginning before finding yourself trapped inside the paths of least resistance. The ones too often circling back into the stark blankness of a familiar inebriated nothingness. Just because that was the only something left to be found, here amongst all this Mittened madness.
Admittedly, I once tried exemplifying the virtues of the better path. But it never really seemed to stick—it became boring. And predictable. Probably because her story was born in a closet of whimpered little lies. Truthfully not an unexpected outcome given all the overindulged trust-funded insanity.
The banality of that Little Red House mirage will forever haunt me. Not for the reasons most would expect. But because I will die a million deaths fighting upon the hill where clichés are properly categorized as bad writing.
And that blonde disaster instability proved the biggest cliché of all.
So I defaulted back into being the perpetual villain. That roguish scoundrel everyone hates to love. The one forever running feral; the one burdened with carrying a clacking typewritten pedigree.
Because at least the words are honest. Something real amongst a 517 pack of more counterfeit pretenders. And I never once tried to be anything different— I could only ever really be, what it was, I was born to become.
What exactly that is, I still have yet to figure out. Because I’m still waiting to figure out what I want to be when I finally grow the fuck up. And finally start adulting on a more meaningful level; and stop playing dangerous games with temperamental winged monsters. Or stumbling out of Michigan bars well beyond the posted closing time.
But then, I am a high-proof sinner; I have never once known what it’s like being on the side of more tolerant angels. Probably because I found the company of all the damaged devils far more entertaining. And instinctively knew my voice would never be welcomed into the purity of that better angel’s choir.
So I made friends wherever I could. Carved out an identity with nothing more than sheer determination. And the tippy-tap rhythm of a graffitied typewriter. Mostly because it has proven to be the only real friend I could ever truly trust. Even though it sometimes hurts me, too. But that’s only fair, given the number of whiskey fueled temper tantrums I pounded into its keys.
I was born broken, into a starving world of want; I will go unforgiving into that last long goodnight.
I accept that the only time I will ever be sent flowers will be for my funeral; I was abandoned, surrounded by endless fields of broken corn.
I will find my peace resting amongst the weathered graves of my brothers; I will continue to reap an unhealthy harvest of letters.
I was born a mistake; I will die a writer. These in-between times are just meaningless noise.
And that leaves a single question begging an answer—who will send me flowers?
