11179 visits since 03/07/01 -=Mail/MSN=- sprained_soul@hotmail.com -=Featured Link=- Listening to 11.975hz - The official webcomic of #a!. 09/30/06 Cocktail Time Kill. 12/11/03 Conveyerbelt dreamscape. 09/24/03 Studded leather Envy. 06/26/03 Your very own anything. 02/11/03 I am part Hamlet, part eunuch. 11/17/02 I liked you better when I didn't know you. 10/13/02 No one likes you and you're going to lose. 09/13/02 I'd sell my soul for a Klondike Bar. 09/12/02 From lonely to only. 06/14/02 Spoonfulls of sidewalk wisdom. 05/11/02 Spontaneous human combustion on a bus. 03/24/02 We are all there is now. 03/18/02 Know what I'm talking about? 03/11/02 I wonder what it's like to be dead. 03/07/02 Lights off, Insanity on.			No one likes you and you're going to lose.     Half hunger, half dread, my keys left in the door and one shoe still on. I wonder who suffered more - Jahova or Jesus, her or me. I'm stomach down on my bed, staring at the wall, I want it to shatter into pieces, one piece for each person who's dropped by my home and wrecked it. I want the roof to catch on fire and the 30 floors of people above me to jump to safety so I can be cuddled in searing, smothered with sweet oblivion, killed by an entire building minus the people to get in the way. 5pm, Simpsons is a re-run. 6pm, she's still gone. 4am, she's not coming home. Have you ever seen a man have the romance beaten out of him? Seen him there, at a park bench, in a corner booth for two at a restaurant, at a coffee shop. He's looking at his watch, he's ordered his drink already, the flowers are quickly drying and wilting in his hands.He stumbles home, intoxicated on lonliness, screaming vows of now longer allowing others to shake his cage like that. No, she's not going to call and apologize, she doesn't have a real excuse and nothings going to make you feel better because no one wants you. Imagine feeling that let-down rejection everyone moment of your day. That's me. I am a walking emotion, I can burn holes through concrete with my hate and I can tear people apart with my lonliness. I am a stumbling and crawling blues song. 5am, need a walk. It's far too cold for October, there's snow on the ground, downtown is empty so the air only smells like dry fall air should, no people to mess it up. Hookers on the corner. I know she can tell the difference between love and lust, she's standing up tall, taking on the world. I know she knows because if she didn't, she'd have a broken heart for every dick she sucked and that many broken hearts could put you in a coma. A broken heart, five times a night. She's such a little soldier. I walk on, past the liquor store where the bikers keep tabs on comings and goings, past the gas station with the bum in the $500 suit, past the drug store, past the market, past the school and the old folk's home. Mind pounding like a punk show, my legs unable to stop, sun's coming up. I should have brought my glasses. 6am. I bet she's curled up beside someone new right now, I bet he has some stupid ivy-league name, like "Biff" or "Butch". I can't help get the feeling that right now, there is a cock in her mouth and she's loving it. Is it sick of me to enjoy the idea of him treating her bad? I smile as I imagine him slapping her, saying she's a lousy fuck, that she's the worst example of a woman in the world. I walk back to the market, it's finally open. The shopkeeper is an old Polish man who looks like he's seen every war this century had to offer. His fore-heard wrinkles up when I ask for my coffee, his eyebrows are drooped down over his eyes like huge gray pipe-cleaners. I bet he's seen his share come and go. I bet he was Poland's pimp of the nation, a different girl every night, cigar in one hand and 18 year old ass in the other. Maybe she's out fucking his son, hell, she might be fucking his grandson. I think somehow I fucked myself up along the way. Not in the way normal people would do it either, I did it like I knew it. Like I was aware things would fuck me up and I did it anyway but I couldn't even be assured in it. It's like a father forbidding his son to leave the house, he knows he's screwed if he leaves, does it anyway and is at ease with his actions, his mission. I fucked myself up and I don't know how or why. Ever think that your brain was wired differently than everyone else's? We are stupid and clumsy, we are evolution's finest fuck-up. People can't be close to someone wired like I am, they can't bend around me, they hate me, they laugh at me, they wish they could burn me in the middle of the street like a witch. They want a traitor's death for me. I don't know why, but I'm inclined to agree. 7am. Girls walk by on their way to work, they're gossiping about last night's episode of such-and-such and how the guy who delivers the water to their office has the tightest ass. "....Bounce a quarter off it!" They laugh. I drink the rest of my coffee walk up to the counter to order another, a walking blues song is in this coffee shop ladies, and he's thirsty. What do you got? A weird look from a stranger doesn't even register. A whisper to your friend? Now we're getting somewhere. I ask them what they just said, I stand and stare, I deliver. "Oh nothing." Woman and their secrets, women and their lies, women and their half-truth whispers. "You know, I'm glad you left." I stir my coffee, I clench my fist. They're all the same and out to get me. "Excuse me? Do I know you?" She looked like a stripper who just popped out of a cake for my bachelor party, it's either shock or that kind of faked self-assurance a hooker would have. "Not anymore you don't." They walk away, they take their pain with them. I cannot be stopped, destroy you before you destroy me. 8am, shopkeeper is tired of me, I can tell. I sit and drink my coffee while he sounds off on last night's hockey game, his voice sounds like a lawn mower that just ran over a rock. Vague disinterest is all I can muster but Polish man doesn't mind. I bet he's lonely, I bet his wife's dead and he has a picture of her on his night-side table. If they don't want me, if society has no place for people wired like me, where do we go? I can't get the concept of love to reject my body or my body to reject the need for other people so I will give it more than it can stand. I'm going to be like them if it kills me, I will fall in love with every woman I see until one loves me back. I will hurt myself for them, I will do their dirty work so they won't get to get blood on their new shirts. I will be right behind them on the march over the cliff. I'm only out to hurt and humiliate you now, I'm only out to masturbate with your body, I'm only out for myself from now on. Nietzsche be damned, there is no more love for 'he who is noble', there is no more general acceptance for those who aspire to lift men from their knees, no more regard for one who can be solitary and enigmatic. Those kind of people are only admired on teen drama shows, the tortured artist with the wild hair and the rogueish smile. I am not that man, I am only the little cog that couldn't.