Propranolol: My Name Is Alex
Hi.
I'm Alex.
I'm 24 and I'm not a positive person.
I don't know if I was born this way or years of forced interaction with those who are beneath
me for years of education. Well, so-called education. People today are so stupid and mundane. I don't know how much longer I can be expected to endure them.
I love the smell of woodchips, you know the kind of you find in a hampster's cage? Not before they piss and shit all over them of course. Sometimes I run track. I have a penchant for peering into my neighbour's windows when she's getting changed. Either she never notices or she doesn't care that I'm watching. It could be a combination of both, seeing as she always keeps the blinds open when she changes morning and night. How do women go through so many outfits? Work clothes, home clothes, pyjamas. Thankfully, I don't have such a life. I get up, but something on and wear it all day then, if I feel like it, take it off before I climb into bed. I like to sleep naked most nights. I'm a fan of freedom.
....
I have a no trespassing sign over my door, that of which my mother always seems to ignore. She's one of these sickeningly optimistic people. Maybe that's my I'm so pessimistic, it was a recessive trait in her, so it's dominant in me. Without fail, she visits me every Friday with a takeaway telling me that I need to eat something. Yes, because Indian curry is just what I need. I usually trade it with the woman below me for her pre-packaged veggie platters her weight support group brings to her house. I'm not at all bothered by the fact I'm undoing the hard work she struggled with all week. In a way, I'm like a drug dealer, slinking over to her house, bag in hand, hood over my head. We quickly make the exchange and I shuffle away and she returns to the Hollyoaks-filled room of her counsel flat. I'm kind of doing a public service in a way.
....
A few days prior I almost killed myself. I don't know if I set out to or not. The memory is a bit hazy. I slit my wrists and painted the wall behind my bed with my blood. I remember how it got on a few of my glow stars. It distressed me.
I left the blood there for weeks. only just scrubbed it all off. and now it looks as if nothing of my life force ever came into contact with it. And then I began to wonder about my existence. Sometimes its as if I'm not a real person, but a character on a page or a screen. stings pulling me in every direction, threatening to pop my limbs from my joints and leave me to dwell limbless on the floor with the entirety of humanity watches and laughs. I know how fucked up that sounds and if you said that to me, I'd probably agree with you. My mother thinks I need to see a psychiatrist. I think that she needs to see a male prostitute. Maybe one day, we'll compromise.
I left the blood there for weeks. only just scrubbed it all off. and now it looks as if nothing of my life force ever came into contact with it. And then I began to wonder about my existence. Sometimes its as if I'm not a real person, but a character on a page or a screen. stings pulling me in every direction, threatening to pop my limbs from my joints and leave me to dwell limbless on the floor with the entirety of humanity watches and laughs. I know how fucked up that sounds and if you said that to me, I'd probably agree with you. My mother thinks I need to see a psychiatrist. I think that she needs to see a male prostitute. Maybe one day, we'll compromise.
....
My inner monologue is completely monotone once again. Even it k
nows the hopelessness and voidness of the drivel inside my head and wants no part of it. I’m laying staring at the glow in the dark stars I have strategically placed around my sleeping triangle. It’s almost as if I’m forever 8 years old with them…if I decide to live, I should get some planets to go with them. That would be a nice aesthetic. Aesthetic. A word overly used by fake angst-ridden teenagers on Tumblr and other various social media websites.
Their hypnotic glowey faces bring me immense pleasure in the voidness of the bedroom. Their beaming smiles stare down at me as if seeing into my soul, well if I had one they'd see into it. I look into their dull-yellow green wisdom, searching for any nuggets of truth that applies to me. Then I remember that they are just bits of plastic infused with chemicals..much like myself And then I feel an odd sense of orgasmic pleasure wrap around me like an old duvet from childhood...then I ejaculate.
....
And as I vomited in the moonlight and eerie calm crept over me.
think I shall stroll out into the moonlight,
barefooted and connected to the Earth as her sister, the moon, slowly caresses me with her luminosity.
It doesn't matter as long as I'm naked, unbound and unrestricted by cloth.
The house is dark and silent as I move through it.
I'm ghost-like as I slip out the side door and into the night air.
It wraps around me like a duvet fresh out of the laundry.
It's times like this that make me glad that I'm alive.
Or whatever this thing is.
....
I'm distracted.
I can't think.
I can't think.
I need an even bigger distraction to get me to focus.
The line of Fosters cans along the windows could be considered art these days. It's completely fuckin' stupid. I guess if I wanted to with these cans, I could become the next Andy Warhol. But I hate him and his posh theories about modern art. I'm more of a Maplethorp guy myself. They say that art is suggestive and very personal and I'll agree to that, but there are some things that are art and some things that aren't.
....
The line of Fosters cans along the windows could be considered art these days. It's completely fuckin' stupid. I guess if I wanted to with these cans, I could become the next Andy Warhol. But I hate him and his posh theories about modern art. I'm more of a Maplethorp guy myself. They say that art is suggestive and very personal and I'll agree to that, but there are some things that are art and some things that aren't.
....
Sometimes I wonder if I could crash my car and just sit there while it explodes into flame while passerbys become horrified that there is someone trapped inside. The beauty of it? I wouldn't be trapped at all. Maybe if I'm lucky, the car will flip and I'll be hanging upside down by my safety belt before the explosion. Then, with any luck, I'll be able to obliterate a few illusions of safety. Goddamn it, do I love irony.
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