I don’t always feel right. Some days, I feel like it’s the end of my life, others...I feel like I’m soaring with the quills of a porcupine scratching my ass motivating me to do better than I ever thought possible. Lately, I’ve been feel morose, really down and out. I looked at a dagger that was sitting up on my wall. For some reason, when we were kids, we thought it was bad-ass to have swords and daggers just hanging up all over, real teenage- daydream shit. Nowadays, I look at it like a piercing reminder I’m getting older every day, and looking at dying even sooner. The pains and aches don’t feel much like jokes anymore, old injuries reminding me every day I was a dumb ass in my witless youth.
So the dagger, it has one of those twisting, zigzagging sort of blades on it, making it look all Asian and stuff. Always thought it was an awkward-thing, until I read up on it. Apparently it’s supposed to gut your enemy, and the zigzag makes it so the would is almost impossible to suture, damn thing is more deadly than an AR-15, because one cut is almost guaranteed death. I used to think that was pretty fucked up quite honestly. Now, I’m contemplating the whole point of existence.
Lived with my mom until I was in my late twenties, early thirties really, but even I’m too embarrassed to say that...then life gave up on her, and she decided to call it quits. Don’t quite blame her, I’ve been thinking the same thing lately...maybe I’m a piece-of-shit...or maybe I’m a loser without a path, but I took that dagger down, and I just ripped it right now the top of my arm. The blood was pretty healthy-looking, didn’t have any serious illnesses, still rather spry for fifty. Just didn’t really have anything of value added to my meaningless existence, and that first cut made me scream “sonofabitch!” at the top of my lungs...but god damn didn’t it feel good to feel something other than some sort of remote separation from reality. It was like I was watching through a computer screen of a computer screen for ages...and that rush of blood brought me back to a younger day like a wet dream or the suckle of a Bomb Pop on 4th of July. I got a stiffy like I was twenty-one all over again, and felt like fuck! I’m alive, I’m truly honestly still breathing in this bastard of a fuckless world! I felt great! I couldn’t believe the emotional joyride I was taking in that slice from some pre-teen jerk-off obsession with what was inherently “cool.”
I looked at the blood already corroding, trying desperately to heal in a cut designed to stay open until the medics put you on the gurney. I was getting light-headed, but it wasn’t like I was pushing daisy just yet. I just needed to feel it a bit longer...then I’d call the paramedics...I wanted to live long enough to feel this alive again! Sure they might lock me in some loony bin for a few weeks, pop me with antidepressants, not like it was something new to me...and then I’d be back on the streets, a bit fatter from the shit food they serve in those damn sanatoriums. I felt a bit woozy, kinda like I was high, but not in the phone dopey way the boys and I were back in our Cheech and Chong impersonation days...nah, it was more the aftermath of a binger where I wanted to puke, and the lights were fading. I reached for my cellphone to dial 911, but nobody picked up….strange? Why not? Turns out, my fucking phone decided to shit the bed, and I was left with just a little smiley face of an half-bitten peach staring me in the constant boot screen….well fuck. Guess I was dead, not much more else to say...but at least I knew one thing: at least for a second...a split second...I really, badly wanted to live, even if it was to hurt again. As I passed out, I felt good knowing that there was something I was looking forward to. Kinda sucks that I’m dead though...oh well, maybe there’s reruns of Seinfeld in Hell….or at least Blossom.