Shut up

Head full of fire. Gut full of stones.

In the mind of this writer exists three people – sounds crazy and boring, like everything everyone else has ever said about anything. Yeah, maybe it is, but sit the fuck down and listen.

There’s the beaten down, postgrad student (PGS) who works a shit job, taking shit calls and pretending to give a fuck, all the while hating herself for ever agreeing to do this customer service bullshit in the first place. Remember, “It’s just a job. It pays the bills until you do what you want to do. It’s not fucking permanent. Just the beginning of you life.”

And while some of the above horseshit may be true, it shouldn’t be used by the “Hippie Love Child” that exists in here. She would be number two – in all fucking facets of the goddamn phrase. She fucking “understands all problems and everyone’s issues.” She is the reason for the rocks filling my gut and sinking me. Honestly, she’s the one who goes, “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine. We just need to rest. It will come to us.” Which sends the PGS up there into a fucking frenzy. She’s just the fucking greatest. She sits on her ass and watches T.V while sipping on God knows what shit drink and goes, “That’s gonna be us one day. But it takes time and right now we just need to relax.” I can’t begin to tell you what that does to Me.

She drives me fucking nuts. I swear to fucking Christ she drives me up a goddamn tree, strings the noose and lets me swing. Dumb bitch forgot how to tie the goddamn thing though, and there I go. Falling from the tree, snapping an ankle and going after her like she fucking stole something. Which she did, if you think about it. She stole fucking everything… Except my box of matches. My head is full of fire. I am the one who has the desires, the wants, the twisted notions of trampling vast majorities of people and making the world a better fucking playground for me and people like me. I’m the one who sits up until 4 a.m. and writes words on paper that don’t make any sense, and force my fingers to slip and fall across the goddamn keys. I’m the one that wants to take the fucking Hippie Love Child out back and beat her within an inch of her existence and then swallow that existence, feed my soul a little bit and stomp out her ideological horseshit!

She sends PGS into fits of, “I can’t do this. I’m gonna fail at everything. Maybe I should just give up and quit. There have been hundreds before me. Millions. I’m not an original–” blah blah blah. And then I have to sit in here, and listen to that bullshit. I’m not like the rest of you who can walk away from the computer, close the window, stop listening. I’m fucking stuck in this skull. Constantly talking her off a ledge. Trying to help her gain her confidence back when that dumbass Hippie opens her mouth and tells her that it’s okay if she doesn’t make it. The fuck it is!

Listen, PGS: You’ll be broke, working nowhere if you give up on this. Since you seem to need the motivation to keep it rolling, let me give it to you. I will make you quit your shit job and put a pen in your hand and make you write through the tears. All the while, you’re gonna feel like shit because you’re not pulling your weight, because you have no job, because you pissed me off. See how it’s a vicious cycle? So get your shit together, woman up and move. Seriously. I dunno when the fuck we invited that Hippie shit into this war, but she shouldn’t be here. Fist fights, bloody mouths and screaming Leprechauns for all, but none of that “what will be will be” shit. This is your goddamn life. Fuck her and get it done.

unholy delight

Mad Sweeney – American Gods


Head full of fire.