There are no words. Obsessed as I am with them, words could never convey what it feels like to be drawn towards everything that is slowly draining your blood. There’s a Pisces tattoo near the ‘V’ under my stomach, below the scar from my Naltrexone implant. The symbol is two fish being pulled in opposite directions. In my case, they probably both have no particular destination in mind.
One time after sex, a girl told me that it looked kind of gay. “Well I’ve probably slept with more men than you have”. She never called me again. No big deal, she had a poor gum to tooth ratio, and that shit is expensive to fix. There’s more money in my mouth than a pre-owned Lexus. Besides, I knew I’d find another girl the next night, someone to get lost in. So I didn’t feel so lost.
I figure one day some pasty slob will pull my drawer open at the morgue and think the same thing. “Looks kind of gay”. I guess I was drunk in South Beach when I got it. I pray the Pentecostals are right, and I’m burning in hell while my bodies in the freezer. I hate being cold. I only came back to Pittsburgh for my family, but now I think they would have been better off with me below the Mason-Dixon line. Doing line after line to quiet the crowd in my head. It’s like the chicken or the egg, which came first? Mental illness or drug addiction?
I know the answer, as usual, but no one believes me anymore. I would think less of them if they did. I’m fucking brilliant. I found the IQ test scores while looking for my credit cards that they always seemed to be hiding from me. Why can’t I figure out a way to be ok?
“At least he’s safe in jail”. I know they tell each other this at night, wrapped in 75 degree affluence. They don’t know what’s misfiring in my brain. The most dangerous place for me to be is alone with my thoughts.
I’ve started advocating for a permanent institution. ‘A forever home’, like in the adoption ads. At least I could stop changing my address and people would know where to write me.
A padded room can’t be that different from the king bed I miss every night. At least the people would be more like me. Maybe they’d treat me like a person instead of a dangerous criminal. I’m only a danger to myself and to the hearts of those who love me.
If someone would show me how to get better I’d do it. If not, send me in an Uber to the ward of the unwanted, the people who can’t be trusted.
Just make sure you spring for an Uber Black, preferably a Mercedes.
You know how I am about appearances.