I’m not a gold digger

Literally if there was any hope of us getting back together it’d be like an active choice to stay together and to learn to love each other. Like yes I would kill 50 men in cold Blood with my bare hands just to see you walk away from me but all I’ve learned from being passionate and mad about you is that women don’t want you to be passionate and mad they just want you to do what the say.

Why do they only care about you?!

Over and over again they keep saying your name but each time they bring you up somehow there’s a new story where you become more selfish and more terrible than you already have proven yourself to be.

As they talk the rift between us widens and not once do they consider reading anything I’ve written or even making themselves known to me and ask long what I want out of all of this madness!

They just keep talking about YOU! Like that sandwich at Home.Stead the “Hot Norwegian” it’s just a surf bagel with stale fucking bread, that sucks! Take it off the menu!

That you! You’re off the menu!!! I’ve done my damndest to move on and put one foot in front of the other and I’m finally getting somewhere again and I get a night of no sleep and new stories about the stupid bitch that doesn’t fucking love me.

News Flash: I DONT NEED TO HEAR ANY OF THIS!!!

Sex at the ICA

Voices say you went to the museum and attempted to have sex with someone on the museum floor but you were kicked out immediately.

I need to hear the facts of these stories from the horses mouth, I.e. yours, but if I can’t get that, for the rest of my life why do I have to live with this for the rest of my life?

they say you did it just to try and feel something, given that in my last blog post we know that you were on SSRI’s so achieving orgasm was either difficult if not impossible.

Regardless, the expectation I feel from the voices, from this new “context” is that you having sex in the museum is what you meant when you said “I’ve seen this before” at the Sheapard Faery exhibit.

I don’t even know if that’s how you spell his fucking name, and I know I shouldn’t believe what the voices are saying, I don’t want to hear anything about you at all but it keeps coming back into my fucking head and you can’t even be fucking brave enough to respond to a fucking email FUCK YOU.

Modern Medicine

The voices are fixated on the hostel. I imagine it’s the one in Boston, they keep bringing up that “you gave them all blowjobs.”

I remember you taking medication. I know SSRI’s interfere with the ability to orgasm, and they say you were taking them a the time. That’s why you thought or wanted to be a lesbian.

These the voices say are just things you can’t explain.

I can’t do it

I can’t force myself to hold it in any longer.

I hate that I feel anything but to pretend that I feel nothing is a grating sensation. As if my skull is being sliced open one small layer at a time and the flood of thoughts about you and anyone else freely enter and exit my mind.

But the point is I hate that I feel anything.

I have all the logical reasons in the world to tell myself I shouldn’t care, that I should go and try to do something to take my mind off of things, but still it all come rushing back, in the dead of night, when I’m alone, trying to sleep and all of a sudden it’s 6AM, I need a few hours of shut eye for work but the voices only want me to stay awake and be tortured by thoughts of you.

Do I love you? Or am I being haunted?

Why can’t we just talk?

We couldn’t we work as friends?

Questions I’ll maybe never get an answer too but what else is there to ask?

I was even asking for much. I just wanted to make it to 19 days, 24 hours past the last time I blogged something of substance, barring my activity on Twitter.

19 days.

But again, I can’t just hold it in.

Which is good in a way, it’s growth, the wiki guess to be vulnerable, to look for solutions, but does it matter who I do this around if it isn’t you?

Do I love you? Or am I insane?

Do I love you? Or am I broken?

Do I love you?

18 Days

18 days since my last post.

Behind closed eyelids I see you kissing or doing something sexual with every male person of color that you come across, or at least I think it’s you.

Could be anyone, you always happen to be a bit blurry, this time you were a bit heavier, and there’s always the idea that your people are like the stereotype of the Chinese: you all look alike. I could be seeing people that look similar to you and aren’t you at all.

Then I think about how in that e-mail, before I went and bought a plane ticket, that you said you didn’t want to “spread racism.”

In these hallucinations you or these women seem like a very forward and eager to be with these extramarital partners, but also like these acts of infidelity are in some secret pocket of space that has a direct link, telepathically to my mind/imagination.

It’s just as tiring to understand as it is to explain.

But it keeps happening, so I suppose instead of ignoring it, I might as well write it down.

Can’t say I feel much of anything.

Can’t say I want those men to be me.

What I want right now is for it all to stop.

And while this ailment might be permanent, then I suppose that ain’t likely either.

13 Days

The time I spend away from this blog grows.

I don’t want to write here, but I will.

I want to extend that time even more, but the voices still plague me.

Voices say you can’t walk.

Voices say you tell yourself “I’m the only one I would want.”

As far as I’ve come along, I should know none of it is true.

But I remember you telling me about some “degenerative bone disease,” And I spiral.

What if it’s true? And now you’re pushing someone else away, and if he’s so wonderful, as you described him, he’d want to offer his aid to you.

Unless he’s wonderful in a way that means he does everything you want, follows your every command.

The scenarios come, and I think or I see these visions of me on the red carpet with my wheelchair bound wife, taking pictures, food for the paparazzi.

They say you’d never want me to “become someone” and then they say “he already was.”

They’ve been saying a lot in these almost two weeks.

But I suppose it matters not.

I spent Saturday in the super market trying to buy every tea imaginable for my girlfriend.

She doesn’t like mint tea though, so I put it back.

She says it reminds her of toothpaste.

There’s a lot that I wish was different about all of this, but I don’t think mentioning it will make it come true.

Sometimes I think, if you committed suicide, or we’re going to, the least you could do or would do is send me one last letter, email, message to remember you by, and eventually discard, forever.

Adieu.

Your Back Hurt

Yes I’m talking about that night in New York.

Voices said something new just now, that you

“wanted to spit in my face, thats how much your back as hurting.”

And I get it, you were pinned against that tree. But a snowball, for revenge?

I don’t know sometimes the voices just make you sound “crazy” and “bi-polar” but I sound the same way when I read back what I write.

Peas in a pod I guess.

Well, I’m the only one hallucinating.

I think.

I have a girlfriend

I thought that would be enough to keep the voices away.

I thought that would make me completely over you.

But here I am again, writing to a ghost.

I am taking my medication, but the voices persist.

They keep telling me about you having sex or being raped because the men/people at the hostel would take your laptop from you.

I’m not upset, but what are the voices trying to do by telling me this? What do they want? Why would I worry?

For as far as I’ve come from these hallucinations, dominating my life, why do I still hear this stuff, although I feel like I’m miles away from the incident?

Hell, even at that time I wouldn’t have minded as much. I just want some honesty, some clarity, to know whether or not this is true, but to be honest I don’t even know if I want that anymore.

My dry spell is over, I have the emotional capacity to consider others, why can’t I just leave you in the past?

What keeps in bringing this back?

That’s what I want to know.

ANOTHER THING!!!

Fucking, voices are saying

“That’s why you don’t want to be ‘the one,’ Howard would find me someone else I’d want to be with”

So what, he’s gay and you’re spineless?

I mean I know your username was “Contently_Unimpressive” but Jesus Christ…

You know what else sucks?

Back when I bought that plane ticket to Norway, back in 2018, I didn’t force my psychosis, my hallucinations evolving.

Now, you’re the prime suspect in a murder plot, my would be assignation by your hands if you had spent the night at my house instead of a hostel.

How did we get here? Where does this winding road lead to next?

I can’t imagine you’d keep the line of communication open with me if I obeyed your ultimatum, and if this was the inevitable end of my madness, or rather, that my madness would go on, changing with no end in sight, would you be there again to comfort my woes or would I have to threaten you again with the idea of showing up in Norway?

Fuck this.