Parasitic

I don’t actually know where to start. Although the Tralfamadorian concept of time is lost upon me in reality, within the confines of a page the rules are rewritten. There really aren’t confines other than physical space, this is metaphysics. I am given a blank canvas to mold and create as I see fit. I create reality in a universe that resides in your mind. I am planting bacteria in your brain that grows and thrives on your engrossment in my words. I am a parasite wiggling deep inside the part of your brain now processing this information. You take static words and your brain paints a picture, a feature length film. These are the lines, you are the director. So, Mr./Ms. Spielberg, how does this narrative unfold? Without you these words are powerless, they lay forgotten on dusty pages. You are the catalyst, the X to my Y chromosome. I need you to complete the second, intricate half of this fractured commiseration.

So maybe I will f**k with time. Maybe I’ll jump and skip through life, forward and back, like poor mister Pilgrim and his misadventures through the space and time continuum. Maybe I’ll share short stories, like a collection, I guess. I don’t know. I feel like I have all of the power in the world buzzing in my fingertips as unspent potential. In my day to day life, I am insecure and the nuances of human interaction are very difficult for me. A lot of people call this rare medical condition “social awkwardness.” Sounds about right. You’ll learn all about me soon enough. It’s just that writing gives me this feeling that I can do anything. The ability to manipulate language to make any character do any task or solve any problem in the vast expanse of all which is contained in what I can conceive of. It’s unbelievable. It’s a pretty nice compensation for my inability to act and be the projection of confidence I so lack when I cease to be “the author.”

I live in my head sometimes. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. It’s a defense mechanism. I cope with my shortcomings in my physical reality by wandering into the construct of the human mind. That led to drugs once. So did depression. So did rampant impulsivity. So did the trappings of severe addiction. So did greed. So did boredom. So did excess cash. That once was not so long ago. That once was a million years ago. That was was yesterday. It’s all the same. Life went on. Still goes on. Plods towards a destination it cannot possibly comprehend with a submissive weariness towards the unknown. Things changed, then, but life plodded on drearily with a resigned sadness anyway. I got by. And that once really wasn’t just one once at all (though many times I said to myself and others, “just this once,” which was a lie), but several years of exploring a mind fizzing and popping with the stimulation of 3,4-methylenedioxy-N-methylamphetamine, lysergic acid diethylamide, benzoylmethylecgonine, psilocybin mushrooms, ketamine, and various other substances. Substances? I might be butchering the terminology. I don’t know. I got a D in freshman chemistry. I do words, I don’t do numbers and formulas. I work with ideology and conceptuality. I shy away from the logical and the mathematical, my brain does not hold an aptitude for math and science. Substances sounds right to me.

Today is May 9th, 2013. Right now it is 9:06am, or so the little blinking number in the corner of my computer screen tells me. Actually, it’s not even my computer, and it’s not blinking. It belongs to the ALVM Union High School District (that’s the fictional name of a real school district). It’s 9:09 now. Damn. I am really ADD today. I’m in class. Journalism class. It’s a block day today. I’m a senior in high school. I graduate in 22 days. It’s a little surreal. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep my head afloat. Not so much academically, I get by. I had a 4.0 a few weeks ago. I’m taking 5 classes right now; English 4 honors (philosophy in literature), Design II, Web/Audio Production II, Journalism, and Civics. Now I don’t have a 4.0. I have less than a 4.0. I partly stopped caring, some s**t happened partly. English comes to me naturally, I’ve had an A all year. That doesn’t bother me. My parents care a lot more than I do honestly. I have a scholarship to my first-choice school for next year that depends on my final GPA. I think I’ll still get it I think. It’s more how I feel that bothers me. The s**t that happened, it’s gotten to me a lot. I’ve been depressed. I’ve been depressed for as long as I can remember. It led to drugs once, a lifetime ago. It led to drugs for a lifetime. I’ve been depressed for a long time. I get better sometimes. Sometimes I get worse. It’s all the same. I get by. But it’s been worse because of what happened.

I’m writing this because I want my life recorded. Who better to tell it than me. I live among shadows and secrets, drawing back into the safe cocoon of my head. I know me better than anybody. It’s not always safe, I’m a little messed up. I have some bats in the belfry to be polite. I’m not insane. I’m not like you either, most likely. That’s more statistical than anything. I don’t do numbers, but it’s a safe assumption. Nobody truly knows me except for myself, and maybe a couple others. But there are dark things down inside of me. Things I’ve never told anyone, things I fear, I try to forget, things I don’t even know are inside me. If you wander too far, you might not like what you find. Be careful. I warn you now, this story isn’t all that happy, or sad, or even interesting, and it might get pretty fucked up. It’s not for the faint of heart. It’s my life as told by me. I think it should be accounted for.

Author's Note

I would love feedback on this in general. Writing style, consistency, how linearly (or not) it moves, whether it's even a valid idea.