on despair.

this is one of those unfortunate days when my neurons misfire, and somewhere in the neurological highways and byways, something goes horribly wrong.

realistically, it's quite likely the medication, which has the little-known (but highly incident) side effect of causing "a sharp rise in aggression and violent hostility." on most days, it would bother me, pacifist as i try to be (until something i hold dear is threatened at least), but today i don't really care. the medication's also supposed to keep me calm, help me sleep. we don't need no thought control, and all that jazz. but anyway, while it keeps me calm, or "suppresses the nerves firing in the brain," i find that little things that have been building up inspire in me the profound urge to strangle someone. hit my roommate upside the head with her vibrator. expose all her dirty secrets and watch her flail, drowning, lost upon a sea of angry gen-Xers who all want to make her pay for being a part of the problem.

i used to mix this particular medication with alcohol a lot, back in the day, as binge drinker that i am, i can honestly say that i don't really remember at all whether i felt hostile when i mixed the two, which i'm now told is very dangerous. but danger is my middle name, i say, not something ladylike, prim and proper, like 'rose,' and i chose to laugh countless times in fatal quantities in the face of death, and i mixed the two all the time. how i managed my life so far without lapsing into a coma is beyond me, though there are gaping periods of my life that i look back on and wonder, really, if i was more than a walking vegetable, for all the good those years did me. deadly cocktails were a passion of mine, an every-day-of-the-week habit, a way to exist in the world without having to accept it.

truth be told, and i'll admit this to no one, dear reader, no one but you, they were a passive suicide attempt, like when i was younger and would wear dark clothes and walk in front of traffic at night. if the car hits me, i'd say, then it wasn't my fault. i just happened to overlook the responsibilities of pedestrians, i'd say from the pearly gates, and look what happened to me. terribly unfortunate, they'd croon, and they would put their arms around me and nod solemnly at my tragic misfortune. if my body wasn't strong enough and by some fluke my heart failed, dear reader, i was certainly not going to be at fault. no one would blame me. i was just some dumb kid who didn't know any better. even though i always know better.

i had made the grand sacrifice of no longer taking out my distaste with the world and the despair that comes with it on my flesh, and so i need another, psychologically valid, alternative. i had not ceased to despair when i ceased to express it with thin red lines down my arms. i had not woken up one day and discovered all the wrongs in the world righted, walked outside to see sunshine and rainbows and butterflies in a world with no pain, no murder, no genocide, no rape-- i had grown perhaps more determined than ever that if the world was going to kill me off (like it's fond of doing to all the good guys), then by GOD, it would be held accountable.