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Unlucky Sevens
19 years ago
General
Brace yourselves: this post probably won't be as random or interesting.
I had realized at some point that my life is full of sevens, very strange sevens, and I'm not talking about the days of the week here. When I was seven years old, I broke a mirror, and INFURIATINGLY I had come to experience seven years of pure hell, coincidentally in perfect alignment to the superstition. It probably wasn't the mirror's fault, no, but it is a very sore highlight. In kindergarten, I was a loner; that much I remember. In first grade, though, I turned into an outcast... but by Second Grade, I'd inflated to full-fledged Class Scapegoat. Then for seven AGONIZING ETERNITIES, I was at the shit end of every stick.
Though, in retrospect I'll have to admit, I practically brought it upon myself. I gotta tell ya, i was one hella stupid kid. I didn't go off and nearly get myself killed, but gods damn I was obnoxious. I hated who I was and what I stood for. Vain, paranoid, yet somehow arrogant despite being at the bottom: the kind that you Loooove to hate. From second grade all the way to eighth, I was a first class ass -_- stepping right in the shit that everybody left for me. I used to think THEY were the problem.
Okay, sure, so they WERE, and ARE. They were NORMAL kids. They liked sports and fashion and horsing around. What did I like? ... fuck, I don't even know anymore. I was lost in a daze of nothing. I don't know how I spent all my time. I didn't have anything productive to do in my life at all, whatsoever...
but then...
I turned 14, and suddenly it all stopped. Coincidentally, this was the year that I shattered MYSELF. Ohhh this is a long story alright. Juicy like a bucket of week-old entrails. I got so sick of myself that one day, somehow, don't ASK me how I did it, I decided to stop trying to be a PERSON. People were filthy anyways, they can go follow their carrots-on-a-stick right off their own cliffs. I was clubbed repeatedly on the side of the head whenever I tried to look at the 'carrots', which led to me being awakened to Aforementioned Cliff. It was a very systematic and clean process. I decided that there were things wrong with human nature so I slowly began to vivisect my emotions right out of me.
Hate was a problem, so out the fucking window with THAT, then... and I suddenly didn't hate myself anymore; it was more of a pity, not in the 'poor me' sense, but in a merciful, understanding manner that offered a helping hand when I needed it. I was deluded enough to believe that this hand that was helping me was an imaginary figure, some of you may call it YAHWEH, but I won't be blaming my successes on an impotent, incontinent, mindless mass-hallucination entity anymore. Anyways, back to the PITY! Yeah!
I decided that Sadness was a problem; no reason, it just didn't feel good... so it was gone. Then anger. Then pride. Then ambition. Then empathy. Eventually, everything that made me socially human.
At the age of fourteen, I was a blank slate, reborn. And here it comes... I spent seven years searching for myself. And this year, I turned 21, and I realize, somewhat anticlimactically: Here I am.
I'm tired. I'm going to cut this out for now. Seeya.
I had realized at some point that my life is full of sevens, very strange sevens, and I'm not talking about the days of the week here. When I was seven years old, I broke a mirror, and INFURIATINGLY I had come to experience seven years of pure hell, coincidentally in perfect alignment to the superstition. It probably wasn't the mirror's fault, no, but it is a very sore highlight. In kindergarten, I was a loner; that much I remember. In first grade, though, I turned into an outcast... but by Second Grade, I'd inflated to full-fledged Class Scapegoat. Then for seven AGONIZING ETERNITIES, I was at the shit end of every stick.
Though, in retrospect I'll have to admit, I practically brought it upon myself. I gotta tell ya, i was one hella stupid kid. I didn't go off and nearly get myself killed, but gods damn I was obnoxious. I hated who I was and what I stood for. Vain, paranoid, yet somehow arrogant despite being at the bottom: the kind that you Loooove to hate. From second grade all the way to eighth, I was a first class ass -_- stepping right in the shit that everybody left for me. I used to think THEY were the problem.
Okay, sure, so they WERE, and ARE. They were NORMAL kids. They liked sports and fashion and horsing around. What did I like? ... fuck, I don't even know anymore. I was lost in a daze of nothing. I don't know how I spent all my time. I didn't have anything productive to do in my life at all, whatsoever...
but then...
I turned 14, and suddenly it all stopped. Coincidentally, this was the year that I shattered MYSELF. Ohhh this is a long story alright. Juicy like a bucket of week-old entrails. I got so sick of myself that one day, somehow, don't ASK me how I did it, I decided to stop trying to be a PERSON. People were filthy anyways, they can go follow their carrots-on-a-stick right off their own cliffs. I was clubbed repeatedly on the side of the head whenever I tried to look at the 'carrots', which led to me being awakened to Aforementioned Cliff. It was a very systematic and clean process. I decided that there were things wrong with human nature so I slowly began to vivisect my emotions right out of me.
Hate was a problem, so out the fucking window with THAT, then... and I suddenly didn't hate myself anymore; it was more of a pity, not in the 'poor me' sense, but in a merciful, understanding manner that offered a helping hand when I needed it. I was deluded enough to believe that this hand that was helping me was an imaginary figure, some of you may call it YAHWEH, but I won't be blaming my successes on an impotent, incontinent, mindless mass-hallucination entity anymore. Anyways, back to the PITY! Yeah!
I decided that Sadness was a problem; no reason, it just didn't feel good... so it was gone. Then anger. Then pride. Then ambition. Then empathy. Eventually, everything that made me socially human.
At the age of fourteen, I was a blank slate, reborn. And here it comes... I spent seven years searching for myself. And this year, I turned 21, and I realize, somewhat anticlimactically: Here I am.
I'm tired. I'm going to cut this out for now. Seeya.
