And Then I Thought I was a Fish

IDENTIFYING INFORMATION: Peter Hunt Welch is a 20-year-old single Caucasian male who was residing in Bar Harbor, Maine this summer. He is a University of Maine at Orono student with no prior psychiatric history, who was admitted to the Acadia Hospital on an involuntary basis due to an acute level of confusion and disorganization, both behaviorally and cognitively. He was evaluated at MDI and was transferred from that facility due to psychosis, impulse thoughts, delusions, and disorientation.

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Observations of a Straight White Male with No Interesting Fetishes

Ever wondered how to justify your own righteousness even while you're constantly embarrassed by it? Or how to make a case for your own existence when you contribute nothing besides nominal labor to a faceless corporation that's probably exploiting children? Are you clinging desperately to an arbitrary social model imposed by your parents and childhood friends? Or screaming in terror, your mind unhinged at the prospect of an uncaring void racing to consume the very possibility of your life having meaning?

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This is the story of a boy, a girl, a phone, a cat, the end of the universe, and the terrible power of ennui.

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⬅ Books for monies

Ex Goth Seeks Same For Weekend Regression

Composed on the 24th of October in the year 2006, at 9:14 PM. It was Tuesday.

It’s cold. My ex is exed. It’s windy. You know, I’m pretty fucking depressed. Not the hopeless, end-all-angsty-teen-depressed, but not the casual, guy-in-the-bar-laying-out-his-troubles depressed either. I don’t want to be social. I don’t want to be cheery. I don’t want people to tell me it’s okay. I don’t want to get over it.

But I do have a huge, ill-fitting leather trench coat stuffed in the back of my closet. What I want is a gothic goddess to go with it.

Let me be clear: I do not like you, and you’re not supposed to like me. That is not why goths date. Awkward, drunken, violent, and regret-filled sex is the best we can hope for, and for the old goths, that was enough. You have no idea what sub-sub-goth-clique you were supposed to be in. You are not a suicide girl. You hate the suicide girls. You hate your parents. You are not impressed by me, and I am not impressed by you, but we will spend an hour getting ready for a long, pointless conversation, chain-smoking, shivering and under-dressed outside some hipster lounge with expensive drinks. You don’t love the hipsters, you hate them even more than I do. You are arrogantly snippy with the scene boys and girls who worship you. You ignore people who make fun of you but you secretly hate them.

I will not be nice. I dated you a thousand times. You dated me a thousand times. We were all the same, we were all bored, but thank christ we were not perky. We were not looking forward to the inevitable godless death, and did every twisted thing we could think of in a haze of sex and drugs and misery to make sure that if there was a god he wouldn’t take us, because better to burn than admit love was going to save us. That’s for those fucking hippies.

You shopped at hot topic once but won’t admit it. I stayed up and smoked until dawn, while you cut up magazines in the corner. High school was bad, but nothing compared to freshman year in college. You probably cut yourself. While everyone else was getting high, you sought out that human connection in the lowest despair you could come up with, hated yourself for it, hated yourself for finding a happy moment, hated other people for putting up with it, hated them for not putting up with it, and still hated your parents.

You knew there was no real culture. You knew we were all just depressed and irresistibly attracted to thin, pale things, swathed in black, tinted in dark red, and covered in wine after dark. Occasionally, you really, really hoped there was a vampire god who would damn you to the dark. You learned to stay away from strong hallucinogens.

You have since tried in vain to recover from the lack of food and palid complexion. You did get a job, and wear long sleeves to cover your scars. You don’t hate your parents quite as much. You still have an inexplicable number of black clothes, but that’s just business now.

Somewhere, in the back of the closet, there’s a stash of lace and leather.

You will find that stash. You will buy a pack of cloves. You don’t do this anymore, and you hate Halloween, and the cold, yet you will walk a mile in the wind and rain. You are not sub or dom or BDSM or ADD; you are an animal because sex is how you take out aggression. You will dress to the 6’s and find that black lipstick. We will meet by chance and size each other up critically. It will be slow going, and we will smoke ourselves sick in the cold, stumbling from one awful bar to the next until we find someplace with pinot noir and indoor smoking. We will not be happy. It will get late, and we will make small talk, and half-hearted cynical jokes, and revel in pure, exhilarating despair at the slow and awful end approaching fast from a handful of decades’ distance. If we kiss, it’s not going to be gentle. We will grab each other, viciously and against all odds, and fight our way to the nearest dark corner.

C’mon, you evil bitch.

Let’s do this.

If you don't work with your hands, you're a leech. Typing doesn't count.

Hi there! You should totally go buy my book for the low low price of 6.73! It's like buying me a beer at an out-of-the-way dive bar in Brooklyn! Not in Manhattan. Manhattan prices are ridiculous, though there are a couple of decent Irish dives where you can snag a drink for five bucks. Otherwise, you're looking at a two or three book beer.