TO MY OBLIVIOUS OR MASOCHISTIC READER"My skin turns black and falls from me,
and my bones burn with heat.
My lyre is turned to mourning,
and my pipe to the voice of those who weep." -Job 30:30-31
I loathe you, but the question is whether or not your simplicity is genuine. Either way IÕll despise you all the more, but my curiosity has been piqued and I must learn before I leave this world - are you as stupid as you appear, or is it a sham?
I have been especially miserable, itÕs true. Only just now, managing to start this bit took a lot out of me; I was out the door and back probably three times before finally arriving at this place; a dubious goal to have reached after such a process, but here I am and I will continue to write until IÕve found a suitable completion for the unlikely possibility of an audience; pathetic though you may be, you are my reader, and if I hate you enough to continue writing so be it.
Now, if only I can convince myself youÕll have the courage to read further...but donÕt get the impression I have an exaggerated idea of my position; that I think simply by writing I might intimidate you. Far from it. I mean, rather, that my life is comp elling and repulsive to you; compelling enough for you to take notice of me wherever I go (particular notice, in fact, with strange, contorted expressions on your faces), but also frightful enough to hold you outside the distance IÕve established; it is t his distance which provides a situation finally tolerable and interesting for me.
So to my question - ladies and gentlemen, strangers and acquaintances; the gentlemen I ignore yet live painfully aware that you play a crucial role in defining me, and the ladies of my even stranger acquaintance, those IÕve wanted and despised or had then soon been finished with, not to forget those IÕve loved, of frigid, calculated beauty to be feared, and too, the men they eventually chose, those laughable and enviable puppets - who are you to me? Why do I have this burning contempt for you?
ItÕs a question of responsibility. The corner of lonely suffering I wake up in again and again is not a corner to which IÕve been forced, it is the place IÕve chosen to live. When I reach for a connection with a stranger my attempt is either so shy as t o go by practically unnoticed or so bold as to offend the person IÕm trying to reach, and in this way I encourage myself into deeper alienation where IÕm to face the horrors and pleasures of realizing my freedom. It is this realization which most of you will be desiring and avoiding most of your lives, and it is this concept which, IÕm confidant, you will never fully grasp.
You may ask: ŌSo why bother writing about it, you cynical fuck?Ķ
Interesting word, cynical. IÕve often heard it whispered from corners in reference to me and wondered if it werenÕt being misused. If itÕs meant to say that IÕm distrustful of peopleÕs motives, I fully agree; but thereÕs this common and modern use which refers to vague hopelessness and dissatisfaction, which besides being incorrect is simply not true of me. On the contrary I find it inspiring that I might take responsibility not just for little decisions along my way, but for everything about my place in this world or lack thereof. Rather than your having stupidly and carelessly insulted me all my life thereby pushing me into my pit of ruin, you have served as vehicles for my own decisions leading to the contempt and hatred for you IÕve now expressed explicitly, for you to read with pain, pleasure or indifference, as you please.
As for why I bothered, I wrote it to laugh at you of course. To make a joke both insulting and out of reach, so if only for a moment I might bring you to feel as alienated as IÕve been since the unfortunate day I entered our strange, despicable world. H a!