I hate you. All of you, without exception. Even if I don't know you, don't know you read this, have no idea that you exist beyond the fact that you are one of the over 6 billion people who inhabit this earth according to the CIA fact book, which also lists Iraq as a leading repository of Weapons of Mass Destruction and thus probably ought not to be trusted, I hate you.
Not all the time, but most of it. The reasons for it vary depending on my mood. Right now I hate you because none of you wants to give me a blow job. My analyst asked if I needed a hug, a euphemism for oral sex he took up after finally understanding that I didn't want to talk about oral sex outright (Not that he was offering oral sex, this is all very innocent and an important part of the psychological process, though there was that time when he was playing some Al Green music as I entered the office, but I'm sure that's just representative of his great love of the 1970s when the basketball was pure and the women were not) and I really think I might.
Okay, I don't need my dick sucked. I still hate you. I hate you for all the restrictions you've placed upon me with your expectations and complaints. I hate you because you keep me from writing what's in my heart. All the insecurity and pain and wild expectation that goes against logic. All the anger and rage and prejudice and wild theories. You force me to present a pretty face, with carefully chosen prose and tonal consistency and fantasies diluted for your reading comfort. You've forced the darkness underground and brought beautiful lies into the light. I want to be up North, driving at night with a beautiful woman in the passenger's seat. She's utterly fascinated with me and Nightswimming is on the stereo and the moon is shining down through the turning leaves of the trees. There's a bite to the autumn air. We're dressed up, nothing expensive but well beyond the jeans and T-shirt line. There are no other cars on the road and we're going home from somewhere wonderful. Somewhere magical in an understated way, the kind of gathering that's filled with intelligent conversation and the laughter of children and deep meaningful discussions about things that are truly worth loving. The kind where people linger, not having anything to do the next day, and the night is still and timeless. It was in a house near a pumpkin patch and we lingered, the woman and I, on the porch looking at the orange of the pumpkins and breathing in the crisp clean air with just a hint of decomposing leaves before heading to the car. Somewhere in the bushes a deer made a noise. She was startled, I was not. In a tree branch nearby an owl was hooting, a ghostly sound tinged with comfort. In faraway lands guns fell silent and children slept, secure their homes would not be burned around them as they slept. Somewhere in a laboratory, maybe in New Mexico, a computer hummed softly as it crunched numbers that brought us closer to cures for all the diseases that plague mankind.
But I'm not in that car. I don't have a car, or a woman, or a nice jacket that doesn't cost too much but still fits well, an accident of body type and tailor's cut. I'm sitting alone in my room and my underpants smell a little bit like urine and I have to go to work to do paperwork soon. Over in Israel they are burying dozens of dead from a resort bombing. In Iraq they can't bury them immediately. It's too dangerous. Too much shooting left to be done. In Afghanistan the children have nightmares. Their fields are full of land mines and their dreams are full of guns. If they're lucky they'll be opium growers or they'll get the hell out. Hope is a luxury so many can't afford.
I want to write about the beautiful girl in the low cut dress and the cool New England evening. That's the world I want to live in. It's the world where I grew up. I can't go home. You won't let me. You've kept me here too long and you've FUBARed my exit strategy. You've killed the woman and marked my door with a streak of her blood.
Or maybe you haven't. Yet I hate you still. I hate you for everything you can't give me. Money, comfort, peace, lost years back, opportunity, help, a life preserver so that I don't drown myself in food and sorrow.
Or maybe I don't. You're just a scapegoat because I'm too scared to hate myself. Not scared exactly. Conflicted. Self-loathing is second nature to one such as I and yet can be so counterproductive. Blame yourself and not the world, that's what the psych classes say, that's the only way things will get better. If you blame the world you'll stay mired in your muck, unable to self-actualize. Self-actualization is key. It's paramount. It's the only way you're going to get laid in this ugly world of ours.
I'm pussyfooting around my flaws and blaming them all on you. Isn't that the way, isn't that always the way? And so hostile too, they'll say. When my bones are dirt and they want to soak up my wisdom. Too late, always too late. I told someone last night that I resembled Kafka. I'd like to be Kafka. Old Franz had a good thing going.
How am I hostile? Let me tell you in a metaphor. It seems appropriate. Let's pretend, dear readers, that this entry is a bus. Another motor vehicle would be fine, but there are now fifty of you and I can't fit everyone into a sedan. It's a bus and I'm the driver and I smell vaguely of urine. Wait, that's not important. Or maybe it is. Anyway, you're trusting me to take you where you want to go. Maybe you don't know where you want to go but reading is an act of trust nonetheless. You're investing your time, a commodity that you have so precious little of, so precious little in a human life it's enough to make you sick, or rather not enough to keep you well. So we're on a bus and we're driving and what do I do? I fuck with the gear shift. I jerk the wheel back and forth. I slam on the breaks. We're careening around corners and backtracking and missing stops and hitting things and the bus smells like urine. Now tell me that's not hostile. Tell me it's not.
You won't. You can't. It is.
Some of you have already gotten off. Bailed on the bus. Hopefully early. The longer you stay on the more compelled you are to take it to its ending point. The more you want to know what the last stop is. Let's hope it's not a wall. My map feels outdated. I think it's supposed to lead to treasure, a big X in the dirt to mark the spot but there isn't any dirt here, it's all parking lots and Photomats and big tall steel/glass monstrosities stuffed with monstrous people doing monstrous things in dark blue suits.
This is the trouble with experimentation. There are no roadsigns. If it falls flat it falls apart. Unravels like a tissue in the toilet bowl. It collapses under the weight of its unstructuredness into tedious words without meaning. Have we reached that point? I think you think we might have.
So I'll get back to me. That's what we were talking about. Why I hate you instead of me. It seems pretty unfair if you think about it. You don't deserve the hatred, at least you don't think you do, and yet it is so freely given. Given without pause for individuality or who you are or whether I even know you. The thing about hate is that it really does come from within. Misogyny and misanthropy both spring from the depths of self-doubt. Nobody can hate a woman who he thinks would like to lie with him. Pity and despise? Sure, if you want to go that route. Hate? No. It's not possible. She's naked and vulnerable and offering comfort and pleasure. She's lying on a quilt or in a field of clover or the bank of a river or some other place that white people like to think of in sepia-toned glory. You can't hate her. Go on. Give it a try.
Now turn on yourself. You're standing there above her. She's smiling. Isn't she beautiful? Isn't she fucking beautiful. Her face is freckled, her teeth are white and straight, her hair is so fine that each tendril looks like a tiny strand of silk and she's naked. Her breasts are sun-dappled. Her vagina is inviting. She smells so sweet, like lavender and lilac and some sugary concoction fresh from the oven. No, not like dead fish, this is a fantasy. She isn't real you idiot, her pussy doesn't smell at all, or if it does then it smells like gingerbread houses on a cold Christmas morning. Get the fish out of your mind. Turn on yourself. Yourself I said, yourself.
You're there above her. You're dressed of course, wearing too much clothes perhaps. She's beautiful and perfect and waiting but you, you're an idiot. Look at you. You know all your mistakes and flaws like the back of your hand. Maybe your belly sags. Maybe you don't get Algebra. Maybe you don't think about that time you bumped into the woman and could have said sorry but didn't because you were too embarrassed to admit your mistake. You fight with your parents. You make so many mistakes. Sometimes you don't catch it when the cashier gave you too much change. On Wednesday when you saw a bus flashing "Emergency, call police" you took your sweet time getting to the pay phone and doing so, and when the bus turned its sign back to normal you let the 911 operator drop it. It could have been terrorists, they might have switched the sign off, you could have killed dozens with your LAZINESS but you let her drop it. Why? Because you were ashamed of the fact that rather than being worried for the people on the bus you were excited. You WANTED an excuse to call the police YOU WANTED TO BE A HERO. You let your shame over your desires keep you from insisting on the phone because you were afraid that you were doing it for selfish reasons.
You let your fear of selfishness condemn dozens to death. Potentially.
You're pathetic. I don't need to count the ways. You switched perspectives in midstream. You call yourself a bus driver? You call yourself a man. You're not. You don't come close to manhood. You treat your little penis like it was a tiny prince, stroking it to sleep and washing it dutifully and making sure not to clip its little head when you zip up your pants but that doesn't make you a man. It makes you an animal. Animals love their dicks as much as you love yours. It's so easy. You're a disgrace. A waste of space and food and oxygen. You are standing there and you have the knowledge of all your flaws and problems and mistakes and imperfections. You know they are legion and they will multiply. You know you'll make mistakes again. Yet you stand there still.
Now look at her. Isn't she lovely. Isn't she sweet. Isn't she perfect. Don't you hate her for all the flaws she doesn't have. She's lying below you and she's naked and so beautiful and she's reaching up with compassion and love for YOU. YOU! You swine. She's an angel offering to kiss a pig. She knows she's better than you too. She's doing it just to prove the absolute nature of her superiority. She has so much love for herself that she can share it with a lesser, with pond scum, with dirt. She likes you because she can. It's the sweetest of cruelties. And you hate her. You should love her back. Worship her. Get down on your knees and lick her pussy until that gingerbread smell is flowing out your pores. Instead you hate her. You want to smash her face in, crush her lily-white throat, gut her from trim black pubis to her septum, and only stop there because you're not strong enough to drive the knife through. You're not even good enough to be a horror.
It takes everything you have to walk away. So you do. You're an idiot, you could have had her, she was lying right there. But you won't. You'll go home and jerk off. Won't you? WON'T YOU.
So you hate her for the bad choice she MADE you make by being so beautiful. You hate her because it hurts too much to play it smart and hate yourself. You hate her because you don't have the sack required to be honest.
I think our bus just tipped over. Everyone else is gone and we went around a wrong corner and we're lying in the street. The wheels are spinning. The ride has stalled. We've stripped the gears, cut the breaks, and plowed through a convent. There are orphan parts stuck to the bumper. I think I'm bleeding. I cut my mouth on the safety glass.
Yes. I definitely smell like piss.