When I was in my early teens, my friend Smiley, and I, used to terrorize this mentally handicapped guy.  I never knew the nature of this man’s illness.  He was in his thirties.  His name was Franky.  If you ever asked him to borrow his radio he would snap.  Just plain snap.  He would start ranting and screaming like he was passing a stone.  I don’t know how someone discovered he would react that way if you asked him such a question.

I’m becoming Franky.  My mental faculties are starting to go.  I live in a punk rock house by the Erimosa River in Guelph.  It’s just me and two other guys.  The basement has been converted into a big jam space.  It works out nicely.

I try to get out once a day.  I loathe to leave my room but I am in horrible shape.  That and my countenance has gotten quite bad.  There is only one bathroom in this house.  I’ve been back here since the 20th of June and I had to crap in a bag three times because the bathroom has been in use.

This makes going for walks problematic.  I guess I’ll buy a bedpan.  I’ll just walk up and down the Erimosa River.  I’ll smile too.  Because I am getting that crazy person perma-smile.   If you happen to be walking along the Erimosa River and see a big smirking grossly out of shape galoot lumbering by with a bedpan.  It’s me.  If you don’t see me it’s because I’ve ducked into the woods to take a heave.  I would rather you not come looking for me.  I will fling poo at you.  Generally taking a crunch is a time I like to spend alone.  I apologize in advance to the wildlife of Guelph.

Why do I share this?  I know you’re asking this.  Is it embarrassing?  No.  It’s really not.  I am dead inside.  I don’t feel embarrassment.  The older I get, the less I give a ripe fuck.  I am an entertainer however, and if my shortcomings can coax a laugh out of the more fortunate, which is pretty much everyone, then I am more than happy to do it.

The last few years of my life have been fucking hell.  I still feel as though I am emotionally being held hostage.  I want to be free.  I don’t want to be burdened by things like love and compassion.  I know this negates what I was saying about being dead inside.  I rock hypocrisy.  If I have a weakness, it’s hypocrisy.

Often when I make a fleeting whimsical decision, I hold an imaginary press conference on social media declaring my big decision like it means something.  More often than not, after giving some thought about it for a few minutes, I realize that’s not what I want to do.  So I’ll just go ahead and switch plans without informing anyone.  Then while everyone is busy trying to acclimate to my previous decision I get frustrated when no one has caught onto the new decision they haven’t been informed of.  ASK MY PREVIOUS BAND MATES!

Right.  My band.  My music.  That’s pretty much all I have left.  But it’s enough.  And it will always be enough.  I’m not ever going to be famous.  You can’t tour the world when you can’t even leave the room.  I can’t do anything that is required of any successful musician.  I suck.  I lack focus.  I lack motivation.  My mind changes like the tides.

I’ve been writing and re-writing my album that is 7 years in the making for the last 7 years.  I have hundreds of demos.  I have hundreds of drum tracks.  They’re all just sitting on my hard drive.  I suck.  I can’t do this anymore.  I just be.

Back to getting older and crazier.  That’s me.  I’m dying.  I have no interest in the things you need.  I don’t need love.  Love is burdensome and a succubus.  Love makes all the things that I like about myself disappear.  I don’t drink.  I don’t smoke.  I don’t do drugs.  I don’t derive any pleasure from anything other than making music.

Even this blog is getting wearisome.  I can’t stop though.  This blog is therapy.  I need therapy.  But I can’t afford therapy.  The government doesn’t even want me to be alive.  I am an expense.  I am an expense to taxpayers, and I am an expense to everyone who is fucking retarded enough to care about me.

What is your dream?  What do you need to be happy?

My idea of being happy for me is being in assisted living.  I suck at taking care of myself.  I don’t need anything more than a room.  Yesterday I ate nothing but chips,  a macaroni sandwich, and Taco Bell.  My laundry is piling up and I don’t have the courage to go do it.   I want the family I never had.  I can’t seem to mentally get past 16.  I’m not a danger to anyone.  Just a burden it seems.

This is end times.  I’m ready to die.  I have nothing left to give life.  I have nothing left to offer anyone.  I am unreliable.  You can’t love me.  I will destroy you.  No one loves me unscathed.  I’m not a bad person.  I’m just not right in the head and I will hurt anyone and anything to survive.  I am a survivalist.  But I don’t want to survive anymore.  Living has lost its thrill.

Every day I wake up I am terrified of what the day will bring me.  My heart hurts for all the people in the world who have been left behind.

Let people die who want to die.  You have no right to expect someone to live who doesn’t want to live.  You have no right.  Suicide isn’t selfish.  Expecting someone who wants to die not to kill themselves because you’ll be sad is selfish.

I’m not depressed.  I’m just done.  I have no use for life.  I want you to be happy for me.  Don’t be a whiney little bitch.  Don’t be sad for Chester.  He was dissatisfied with life so he spined the fuck up and did something about it.  I’m proud of him.  i envy him.

And Oshawa, don’t you pathetic cunts hold some stupid shindig for me in my honour at some rathole bar, you pathetic fucking swines.  Honour me by sharing my music.  Or don’t.  You can go dance the fucking hullygully for all I care.  With the exception of about 3 people I actually care about, I think you’re all a fucking joke anyway.  But you know that. 😉

Don’t put me on suicide watch.  I don’t have a plan.  I don’t have the nerve to hang myself or throw a toaster in the bath.  But I certainly wish I was dead.  The longer I live, the more painful everything gets, and I do mean everything.

There’s nothing left to do but exist.  I will exist until I die.  Hopefully it happens sooner than later.

Thanks for tuning in guys.  I’ve been working my ass off on this album.  I keep starting all over a lot but at least I am doing something.  If any of you in bands need songs let me know.  I am a better songwriter than you, I don’t care about the genre.  Well maybe not jazz….

Until that day, you ignorant fucks.

Doug

 

Share Button