HITLER OR M&Ms

Aiight, aiight. I’m in Kalakuta Republic now. Just chilling. Just chilling.

Aiight, aiight. Back up. Back up.

Back up to what?

That’s a very good question.

Back up to what?

I haven’t smoked any weed in three days now; three days and running. It’s fucking tearing me inside out. I have found myself in this weird calm. A raging calm; a calm filled with anger. As the more colloquial would say, the calm before the storm.

Back up to what?

I can’t even remember how the fuck I got to this fucking place. Whenever I try to remember, it’s just a blur. It seems the blurriness of my past is even affecting my present. Everything in my present seems to shimmer. Like they’re not really there. Like they can disappear at any time. I made some new friends and whenever I see them it’s like I just met them for the first time. When we’ve established that we’ve been hanging out for a while, I ask them in my head, “How the fuck did you get here? What the fuck you doing talking to me? Do you even know who I am? Maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone else. What the fuck are you doing here with me?”

The lack of a past removes the possibility of any future. You’ll just be moving from present to present. No discernible future. Your life becomes foggy. You can’t see in any direction; backwards or forwards.

What am I doing? What the fuck am I doing? I’m unconsciously consciously undoing all the hard work I’ve put in this last year. I’m fucking up my own glory myself. I’m my own hater. I’m my own enemy. I hate myself for having more than I have. I hate the fact that I’m shining and I have to bring me down. I’m jealous of myself so I have to do all in my power to fuck myself up.

This is, I think, the higher road to suicide. There are those hater fucks that hate their lives because they don’t have shit. They see everyone around them stunting and they’re so fucking full of hate. Like who the fuck does that guy think he is? Who the fuck does that girl think she is? I can’t take their smugness anymore. And they fucking kill the other guy (Literally or metaphorically; as it pleases you).

I’m my own other guy.

If I ever kill myself it will not be out of pity and depression about my fucked up life. It will be because I hate myself. I hate what I can be and what I have been. I’m jealous of myself because I am no longer myself.

Perhaps that is why suicide is against the law. Maybe that’s why it can be simultaneously seen as murder of one’s self. You kill a dude out of spite. You hate him. He fucked with you, fucked you up, whatever. You just wanna take the breath from that motherfucker. You have no fucking right, whatever the motherfucker did to you. That’s murder. That’s against the law. But why should suicide be against the law? It’s your own life. You’re the one living it, so why shouldn’t you be the one to end it?

It’s against the law because you’re doing the same thing as the murderer I just described. The only difference is that the other guy is you.

Them leave sorrow, tears, and blood.

(Them regular trademark)

[Sorrow, Tears, and Blood by Fela Anikulapo-Kuti]

Yeah.

Sorrow, tears, and blood.

Those things blaze the trail ahead of me. My sorrow and my parents’ sorrow over me. My parents’ tears. The tainting of their blood. The blood I bleed from myself every day, fucking with myself.

My regular trademark.

When your parents and your friends feel like it’s time to give up on you, then you are truly fucked.

Fucked-up-ness becomes your, well, regular trademark.

In the blur of the past few months, I have totally fucked myself. I can’t see the cause in the blur, but in every shimmering present tense that I find myself, I can see the effect. It’s like the world in Resident Evil, the scene I see.

And this is the only time I can see it; the calm before the storm. The winds have fucked themselves and there’s been gestation and all that fucking bullshit and the chic wind is now in labour. Very soon their child, the storm, will be born. Is it going to be a bad storm like Hitler (to the Jews anyway) or is it gonna be a good storm like the chocolaty tasty slickness of M&Ms?

Who the fuck cares? No one but me.

And that’s why I’ve dropped so low that I’ve come to be in this hell. Even in this Dante’s Inferno, I have worked my way to the ninth level.

Because who the fuck cares? No one but me. And I don’t give a fuck.

I still don’t know if I give two.

But I think that’s the factor that’s gonna decide whether I get Hurricane Hitler or Hurricane M&Ms.

Thing is, it’s still a hurricane. Whether it’s good or bad, there’s still gonna be damage. It is inescapable. There’s no motherfucker that’s gonna wake up on a rickety boat and say “Peace be still.” There’s nothing like that.

There’s still gonna be some damage even if I change my ways now; because, this time, I fucked up for real. I fucked up real fucking bad.

In the calm of the storm, we prepare for the storm. There’s no running away from it now. What we do to prepare decides whether the storm smashes us the fuck up, or whether we ride the storm to the shores of paradise.

*The name “Silver Surfer” comes to mind.