Materials Request

i don't know what the numbers were for.
was it inventorial smugness.
was it counting down to a psychotic break.
was i being cute.
was i falsely perceiving myself as being mysterious, cryptic, and obscure.


was i being manipulative.


let me say this: it has been a weird couple of years.
yeah, weird. i guess.

been reeled in like a fish from crazy pond and dumped into the dirty, smelly bucket of sanity. sorta.

the place wasn't bad. i mean, the surrounding area of the place wasn't bad. up in some cold, white mountain of the country i live in. momma's money will never let you stay in some public institution for long, right.

all those who were involved in my being reinstated as a sane and functional member of society told me i wasn't really crazy. like, i didn't hear any voices in my head. and well, if i did, i wouldn't tell anyone about them, so that kind of restrain from my part should be considered as sufficient proof of sanity.

i was depressed and unmotivated.

i could even say i was disappointed. disappointment is a bitch.  it left me wanting, wanting bad for something nobody had the guts to give me.

i spent all of my 'glorious' childhood, pre-adolescence and teenage years fucking around with men and older boys who seemed willing and enthusiastic but eventually proven too weak to live up to their promise of substantiating my one and final wish, my one and only request, need, desire -whatever - that was very simple to begin with: killing me.

it was from the very start of every 'relationship' or 'liaison' that i stated: "look, you can buttfuck me all you want and i'm not gunna tell no-one, you can do whatever you want with me and i'm not telling, you can lock me up in a basement and rape me and have your friends and family and pets to rape me, whatever, i don't care- but, at some point, can you please make sure it all eventually leads to murdering me?"

with some of the most daring, or most sexually sadistic guys, we had reached the stages of rape and even torture, but everyone would let me down at the most critical moment: knives would be plonked down on the floor, fingers would loosen around my trachea, guilt-ridden hands would grab at my hair thus forcefully extricating my nostrils and mouth from their watery deathbed the very moment i was starting to drift.

i'd come around on floors, sometimes having hastily and anonymously been discarded on the pavement outside some ER room, gasping water, puking, bleeding, bruised, sore, my whole body one big puffy black eye.

but always i'd come around, which inevitably thrust me into big-time depression.

"there's nobody out there to love me enough to kill me." the mere frustration of such realization was killing me.