It’s hard to explain how dead I already am on the inside. What was taken from me. Who I once was has been stolen not just by the rape but by the year of fighting battles that still lie ahead. I’m tired. I’m nothing but a zombie doing my meaningless job all day, every day, resting on weekends, doing nothing but getting stoned and sleeping.
I am no longer human in any real sense — no purpose, no circle of people. Just a lone being whose existence has no meaning and would only serve the powers that be if it ended. Yes, I’m depressed, once again, and waxing poetic about it. I want to turn on the TV and watch football, but there’s no one to talk with about the last play, so why bother? I sit here crying, lonely as usual. I know people are reading and listening because the state literally pays them to. So I guess I have some value there. How much do they pay you to babysit me? Great gig if you can get it.
I’m tired of this. I’ve got to call the police and report my homeless friend robbing me. I gave him until Friday to give my stuff back or pay me. He’s done neither. I already expect to hear the words: “There’s nothing we can do.” Because that’s the truth: they don’t actually do anything. That’s not their job. Their job is to watch people like me in some voyeuristic, sick game of turning a victim into a criminal. They don’t give a fuck about what’s been taken from you — your property, your sanity, your sense of safety. Police aren’t there to help anyone. They exist to destroy, not protect. NSP did a fine job of destroying me.
So what’s the point of any of it? Why did humans evolve from slime? What greater purpose is there? We exist simply because existence was possible. There is no greater meaning, no greater good. Good people are bad. Bad people are good. We rape the earth to prove supremacy in the ecosystem, destroying everything we can — including each other.
DOI still hasn’t sent the records. No one cares. We have a hearing in September on their motion to dismiss. I’m already responsible for nearly $1,000 in filing fees because I “make too much money.” I make $2,200 a month. My rent is $1,795. My life is absurd. I have nothing. I’m at –$112 in my checking account. All my credit cards are maxed out. At least the rent got paid this month — thanks, Dad.
Why do I keep fighting? Why? I don’t even understand it myself anymore. It’s just this internal drive that keeps pushing me forward. Maybe it’s sheer stubbornness, maybe it’s masochism. Or maybe I just want front-row seats when I inevitably burst into flames like a human tiki torch on the courthouse steps. At least then, for once, people might notice.
Disclaimer: This is dark humor, not a manifesto. No threats, no plans, no suicidal intentions — just me screaming into the void with sarcasm. If I ever do spontaneously combust on courthouse steps, rest assured it’ll be metaphorical, not literal
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