The Chair, the Project, and the Perpetual Aftermath Part Eleven Mature content No. 51 Published February 5th, 2018 8:11am pst read ( words) Past entries "Sitting. Nothing. In the wake of the forced walk from the goddess, and the subsequent loss of another fucking goddess, I had no idea what kept me upright. Both of those gorgeous souls brought a wonder into my life which had been missing. And I had no idea where to find any relief from the severe feelings. After all of the events, all of the fucking sobbing and screaming, and the moments of comfort brought to me by the young one, I still did not know which way to turn. I had thrown so much away that the thought of everything combined was crippling my head. I sat -- day after day -- and wondered if I could survive all of the haunting thoughts. The routine between work, home, and visits to the bar became as comfortable as it could, but still the swirling carried me away from myself over and over. [The bags of shit I mentioned on the Internet years ago are still tied to me, and pulling at me with every step.] Yes, thrown everything away which was important. And the career began to become the worst aspect of those decisions. I ended up stuck in a toilsome and tiring job which served to pay expenses but offered little else. As I was aging, the physical aspects of the work were wearing me down at a tremendous pace. Combined with my mental exhaustion, the exit was illuminated many times and during quiet moments. Reflection did not help me to learn a fucking thing. All I could do was wallow and miss those examples of inner and outer beauty. And then write about it in such a manner so as to keep the details compressed and hidden. The exhaustion continued without relief. The upside had become an exploration and catharsis through the web editor. Typing and wallowing were all I had, but at least the exit was kept at bay from time to time. The writing became a massive distraction due to being so technical. I had to engineer the entire site from scratch, and by the time all of the events with the Raven had passed into history, the site had developed into a very professional-looking space. After streamlining and building things into a representation of the inside of my head, the continuance took much less work and allowed for much more exploration. And then the time in front of the code worked its way into me just like a therapist. Yes... the Chair. The numbers which began to paralyze me The editor quickly became the only way for me to deal with the fucking obsession. Aside from the wonderful feeling of the Raven allowing me to do anything I wanted or needed, and the goddess being willing to do the same, any real furthering of that facet of my being was decidedly unavailable. I had nothing else. So, soon after transferring all of the site content into active server pages, the direction of everything turned sharply to become the all-encompassing need to find reason. Day after miserable day I sat in that infernal chair continually expressing all manner of dissatisfaction with an empty future and nothing else aside from ramming my head repeatedly onto the Internet. And right there next to the keyboard sat the alcohol. Plenty of it. From beginning to end, each entry fell further into a hole and propelled me downward without mercy. Writing about all of the fantastic models from around the world, the occasional example of mathematical beauty which strolled by my eyes, and then placing all of the frustration and difficulty on the screen alongside monochrome imagery had become my only source of any type of relief. There was simply nothing in the physical world to which I could cling. Words, images, the downward thoughts. That was all of it. Every night was spent wallowing at the bottom of the glass, and each new day brought more visions and less reason. While in the city the examples were often many and unbelievable. Each occasion pushed me further down and created tension between what I needed and all that was lacking. The outlet became more and more of a crutch during those times, as well. The situation began to snowball, and during the most arduous moments I found myself clinging to thoughts of the Westin balcony, the knife, and the traffic. Over and over I rose up in the morning to do my best, and fell down in the evening when all of the thoughts flowed unchallenged. The goddess and the Raven. The Brunette and her eyes. All of it pushed at me without end. Sex and wonder, exploration and discovery, passion and unending physical desire. The goddess. Those days... That beautiful soul with the curves of Venus and Aphrodite combined. Everything of which I dreamed daily was in front of me and mine. And then nothing and no one. Cards? Nope. Needs? Yep. Outlet? Chair... Because the project I worked so hard toward had been ignored like all of the words which poured out for years. The essays became more and more frustrating to produce, and the fucking editor just stared back at me like so many striking women floating about the streets of the city. Fuck it. All that remained was the chair. The dramatic curves of dreams At some point I had to force a change. I had to reach out to someone and ask. But there was just no easy way to approach a stranger and open up to them about such a subject and interest. I would have been labeled some sort of deviant and avoided like the plague. I tried to say something on more than one occasion, and even went so far as to reveal part of the obsession to a close friend whom I felt could be trusted. That entire idea went up in smoke, but at least it did not travel beyond one person. I did not know what to do next, other than continue to drink and write. An option popped into my head soon after. I figured that if I could place a simple thought onto an invitation and then hand it out like a business card, perhaps someone would respond and at least communicate with me about such a project. That facet of the site could explain the relationship between mathematics and physical attractiveness in a formal and professional manner. I had cards manufactured and sent to me, and months later actually handed one of them to a woman. Some time later, another card was given. And then another. In total, six cards had been distributed to picturesque women in various places, all of whom were asked to keep the card from others and destroy it if they were not interested. No response of any kind from any of the subjects. Big fucking surprise. Further down I fell, and even moreso due to the knowledge that nothing would ever come to light. Back into the fucking glass, and that Goddamned chair which was my only apparent companion to such a strange desire." The Meantime n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self is not ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy -- the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy -- who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act. "Well, there it is for fuck's sake. Spoken clearly and to the point, nothing would satisfy or become wondrous any longer. The Raven was the last opportunity and she was most decidedly gone for good. Before her... Michelle. Gone. Fuck me. How I allowed such a situation to develop is beyond consideration. Michelle was a draw unlike all others. Her beauty extended so deep inside that a simple glance of understanding was enough to satiate the remainder of my life's drive. The dream of watching her walk toward me at the Mandalay Bay was nearly too much at the time, and later became the sad film of my seemingly unavoidable demise. The Westin balcony began to look more and more appealing, as did the traffic patterns within downtown San Francisco. Anything which could have come along had the ability to help. Anything. Nothing. Private radii... unknown to anyone So, deeper into the code I went. The young one enjoyed her space as I dove in on a daily basis. We still went out together and gallivanted just as before, but the editor was where I needed to be, always. Without a working model, writing was all I could do. And the feelings flew off the keyboard just as the period when flame was pointed toward the others. Complaining was the order of the time and every word ended up looking like every other. Similar to 1236 and the black MySpace days, the compositions fell further down into a depressive abyss. I expanded the site to include indexing for all of the new titles, and amended the informational page as a warning to readers. That was probably not the best idea, but I figured a disclaimer was overrated and overused, so a bit of text about the direction and nature of the site content seemed necessary -- despite the creative control which came with ownership. Whatever. I put it in there no matter the consequences. Happiness flew from me like blackbirds from a hawk. I did not have a direction nor any idea of how to deal with all of the mounting feelings regarding the mechanics. Along came the never-ending slew of picturesque women on a near-daily basis, and my desire increased ten fold. Couple that with the damage I had caused myself over years of having no release whatsoever, and I somehow knew the cards would never bear fruit. No one would contact me. No one. I had to deal with the fact that everything was at the same fucking dead end I had been slamming into for all that time. Soon after the realization that the dream would never come to light, I began to abandon hope of other projects and hobbies in favor of focusing upon the continuous bitching. All of the essays started to resemble each other... Nothing positive, nothing lit, nothing hopeful. The days were bleeding into one another and the only saving throw was the early morning sessions on Saturdays to sit in front of the singular comfort of the keyboard. That was bad. Outings with others were slowly morphing into simply exercising the killing of time, and work dragged like never before. I had become a fraction of my intelligent, engineering self. The site had worked its way into me as the one force to keep me alive and moving forward at any trajectory other than the sea. Drinking, typing, drowning in thought. Nothing else was real any longer. The more those quiet mornings came and went, the more important they felt to me. I soon dreamed of them beginning with Monday morning and through the rest of the week, as I pushed others aside and sparingly held on to anyone's attention. Daily life had boiled down to a simmering slurry of obsession and need, and on those occasions when an example of such mathematical beauty would stroll by in front of me, well... things went south further. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, nervousness, hypoglycemia brought on by extreme discomfort in watching a dream walk away. The fear continued to mount and grip me like nothing else. That was my routine. Each day dragged. The weeks dragged. The months dragged. My life dragged. Curves leading me into an asylum The questions flowed like the muddy Stanislaus River in spring, and I went even deeper into that damaging and deviant obsession. Daily dreams of what I had seen and experienced only served to push me further down, and all of the words spewed across the Internet like a cloud of blackbirds obscuring the sun. Essays amplified in magnitude and frequency. The keyboard clicked with the depressive thoughts I could not avoid. The gorgeous and sexually-charged images were edited, scrutinized, and added to each week's writing like billboards advertising my strange and overwhelming needs. The women displayed upon the piling pages became the only souls who seemed to hear me. Numbers of the site statistics fell steadily, just as my involvement in normal thought. Everything pushed, everything hurt, and nothing brought me up in any manner. The mornings in front of the editor became a cocoon. Just like an addict of any substance, all of the content and the process of developing and publishing became like a needle in my arm -- scarring me each week and leaving the following session necessary for my survival. I hid in the big chair with headphones on and brain riding a narrow rail at high speed. I had to get the words forward and into production, lest I make the sordid decision to return to any of the suicidal scenes. Michelle's beauty and enormous eyes flashed within me over and over, and the Raven's loveliness and huge heart kept my ass welded to the fucking display. Over and over and over... further and further down... Typing and drinking and typing. I was a sitting syndrome. Fuck me. And then... That morning. The typical combination of coffee and keyboard was happening, with me cozy in my big chair and words flying. I was the only one home with no other plans for the day, which meant I was free to remain glued to the seat with my eyes connected to the twin displays. Along the way -- mid-morning -- I decided to delude myself a bit and add alcohol to the thought processes. Such an idea was wonderful in the beginning, and cut to a few minutes later and I found myself pulling in the scent of the whiskey as it chilled over ice next to the mouse. The more I smelled the smoky-sweet enticement, the more the words began to twist. Soon I was swilling fairly quickly with the keys responding to enhanced heart rate and slurred thought. Before long I was sliding into that familiar hole and defending my position out loud as the damage appeared within the code. I yelled at the window, at the displays, and at myself. I dropped the chair and reclined as far as was feasible, all the while addressing ears which were not present. I reached forward to the keyboard and realized the chair was far too relaxed, and that enraged my distorted thought to the point of refilling the glass and proceeding out to the yard for a cigarette. Pacing, drinking, smoking, and yelling to myself... 'Why?'. Back to the desk and the freshly topped-off cocktail I stumbled. And the words continued to float off the keys -- tormenting, obsessing, longing, and pointed toward myself like the blade which accompanied me on all of the long trips around the state. I swore out loud while typing, threw items around the office, and slammed the chair to its recline limit in order to drop the whiskey down my throat as quickly as possible. I was absolutely poisoning myself with every available substance... Words, chemicals... Any sort of abuse I could find within reach. And the resulting feelings of pain and loss soon drove me back to the beginning. To the knife. The beginning of the end I slowly closed the multitude of programs on the computer, filled my glass yet again, and proceeded out to the yard to find reason. I searched myself over and over, called upon every sordid memory, and felt the need to put a sharp end to all of the losses and voids which had rolled over any upward feelings without remorse. All of the events leading up to that moment had collapsed my outlet and pushed me into a space where only death seemed an option for removing the cutting thoughts and disjointed reality in which I lived. I ran across the yard, back and forth several times, and then back into the office to locate weapons. The keyboard sat there screaming at me but to no avail. Outside again with knife in hand and tears in eyes. I stumbled at the step and lost my glass of whiskey, and following the trail of liquid I crawled toward the grass seeking anything. Crying. Flailing about yet again. Screaming. Help me. Nothing. Eventually I lay there, half out of my shirt and all the way out of my mind, but the knife would not move. I licked at the sunny sky and told myself there was no other way. The yard rolled around in my sight as I scrambled to find reason and will. The loungers in the backyard called for me to slow my pace and breathe, and several moments later I fell into one of them and tried to find calm. Just as in Costa Mesa, the overwhelming confusion and lack of direction had allowed me to seek out the weakness necessary for harming myself. All of the prior issues came to mind and I began to think of my trip back up the state and out of the glitz that was the south coast. I made it... All the way home without much difficulty (other than the bartender's beautiful eyes) and had a bit of time pass before the next frightening episode. How? Who knows. Slipping up and allowing myself to be near the beauty in the world was always a conscious decision. A bad decision, to be certain, but the simple fact is that my need outweighed any possibility of falling determinedly into the bottle and wallowing through an ocean of gorgeous and shapely visions. Add that up and throw in the effects of hurting others and there was nary a path I could see clearly other than death. The whiskey afternoon had brought me back to myself and helped me to realize that the fucking finger was always right there in front of me... Pointing you-know-where. The Raven would not have been happy about my flying fits, but her exit further enabled my ability to remain upright in any manner. When she pressed, I complied... and the reverse was also true. Stronger together? Maybe. However during those moments in the drunken backyard stupor, the Raven was only a part of the reasoning for ceasing my hellish desires. The slight Goddamned positive was the fact that I needed the possibility of someone hearing me. Someone. Anyone. No one. Fuck you. All of the whys... rolling over me Back to the chair and the ill-conceived project I went. I continued in a similar vein for what seemed an eternity, all the while trying to avoid the wondrous and lovely issues which popped up sporadically and pressed me into the hole. The cards proved useless and I began to feel as if the idea of soliciting subjects appeared too deviant for the average person to absorb. So I kept the remaining QRs in the safe. At least that way I did not need to worry about any sort of backlash from a real person -- only myself (no shit). Cards pulled, ass in chair, whiskey in glass, keyboard at hand. That became all I could be... All of the brilliant engineering, structured interests, and years of education coupled with endless possibilities... No more. And the chair eventually turned into the sole place in the world where I could make no apparent mistakes and create that which became this: a coma. The project seemed dead and/or dying, but no decision to force any type of change was made. I could not veer from the path I had created, nor could I entertain anyone else's suggestions regarding how to improve my situation. I simply needed to stay within the dream and spew my thoughts out at the world. Blame was always toward myself, but on occasion I did lash out with accusations in the direction of others before coming to my senses (somewhat) and realizing that I needed to keep all of it to myself. People appeared to me as sheep, but still I knew of the genesis of my issues. All. Me. The Raven had told me of my value during one of our quiet moments, and she further informed me that I was disallowed the idea of steering myself toward harm. I survived the apartment, the Westin, the highway, and the moments between those dramatic demonstrations of weakness. Over time I knew I had to stay alive and continue whatever it was I had began. The images flew through the drives and the keyboard clicked away without pause. The chair held me and provided the little comfort it could despite the ongoing aches within. There I sat. Cut to the present. Now I am in the perpetual aftermath of all of the events and issues which have combined to mold me into a compulsive and depressed individual incapable of rising above and out of the din. Hence, all of it. Sideways, upside down, left, center, broken, wanting, needing... Nothing. Fucking nothing. And I did it, alone. I made it happen throughout more than a decade of desire. Images, calculations, words, dreams, and shit. This is what I am now -- a hole -- void of drive, ambition, and hope. Why? End of line." Copyright ©2002-2024 comainterrupted.com All rights reserved All other trademarks, logos and graphics are the property of their respective owners Created by Brandywine Engineering using Microsoft Visual Studio 2022 and .NET Framework 4.8 Questions? Comments? Anything? Gather your thoughts and compose a message to the psychos in charge
The Chair, the Project, and the Perpetual Aftermath Part Eleven Mature content No. 51 Published February 5th, 2018 8:11am pst read ( words) Past entries "Sitting. Nothing. In the wake of the forced walk from the goddess, and the subsequent loss of another fucking goddess, I had no idea what kept me upright. Both of those gorgeous souls brought a wonder into my life which had been missing. And I had no idea where to find any relief from the severe feelings. After all of the events, all of the fucking sobbing and screaming, and the moments of comfort brought to me by the young one, I still did not know which way to turn. I had thrown so much away that the thought of everything combined was crippling my head. I sat -- day after day -- and wondered if I could survive all of the haunting thoughts. The routine between work, home, and visits to the bar became as comfortable as it could, but still the swirling carried me away from myself over and over. [The bags of shit I mentioned on the Internet years ago are still tied to me, and pulling at me with every step.] Yes, thrown everything away which was important. And the career began to become the worst aspect of those decisions. I ended up stuck in a toilsome and tiring job which served to pay expenses but offered little else. As I was aging, the physical aspects of the work were wearing me down at a tremendous pace. Combined with my mental exhaustion, the exit was illuminated many times and during quiet moments. Reflection did not help me to learn a fucking thing. All I could do was wallow and miss those examples of inner and outer beauty. And then write about it in such a manner so as to keep the details compressed and hidden. The exhaustion continued without relief. The upside had become an exploration and catharsis through the web editor. Typing and wallowing were all I had, but at least the exit was kept at bay from time to time. The writing became a massive distraction due to being so technical. I had to engineer the entire site from scratch, and by the time all of the events with the Raven had passed into history, the site had developed into a very professional-looking space. After streamlining and building things into a representation of the inside of my head, the continuance took much less work and allowed for much more exploration. And then the time in front of the code worked its way into me just like a therapist. Yes... the Chair. The numbers which began to paralyze me The editor quickly became the only way for me to deal with the fucking obsession. Aside from the wonderful feeling of the Raven allowing me to do anything I wanted or needed, and the goddess being willing to do the same, any real furthering of that facet of my being was decidedly unavailable. I had nothing else. So, soon after transferring all of the site content into active server pages, the direction of everything turned sharply to become the all-encompassing need to find reason. Day after miserable day I sat in that infernal chair continually expressing all manner of dissatisfaction with an empty future and nothing else aside from ramming my head repeatedly onto the Internet. And right there next to the keyboard sat the alcohol. Plenty of it. From beginning to end, each entry fell further into a hole and propelled me downward without mercy. Writing about all of the fantastic models from around the world, the occasional example of mathematical beauty which strolled by my eyes, and then placing all of the frustration and difficulty on the screen alongside monochrome imagery had become my only source of any type of relief. There was simply nothing in the physical world to which I could cling. Words, images, the downward thoughts. That was all of it. Every night was spent wallowing at the bottom of the glass, and each new day brought more visions and less reason. While in the city the examples were often many and unbelievable. Each occasion pushed me further down and created tension between what I needed and all that was lacking. The outlet became more and more of a crutch during those times, as well. The situation began to snowball, and during the most arduous moments I found myself clinging to thoughts of the Westin balcony, the knife, and the traffic. Over and over I rose up in the morning to do my best, and fell down in the evening when all of the thoughts flowed unchallenged. The goddess and the Raven. The Brunette and her eyes. All of it pushed at me without end. Sex and wonder, exploration and discovery, passion and unending physical desire. The goddess. Those days... That beautiful soul with the curves of Venus and Aphrodite combined. Everything of which I dreamed daily was in front of me and mine. And then nothing and no one. Cards? Nope. Needs? Yep. Outlet? Chair... Because the project I worked so hard toward had been ignored like all of the words which poured out for years. The essays became more and more frustrating to produce, and the fucking editor just stared back at me like so many striking women floating about the streets of the city. Fuck it. All that remained was the chair. The dramatic curves of dreams At some point I had to force a change. I had to reach out to someone and ask. But there was just no easy way to approach a stranger and open up to them about such a subject and interest. I would have been labeled some sort of deviant and avoided like the plague. I tried to say something on more than one occasion, and even went so far as to reveal part of the obsession to a close friend whom I felt could be trusted. That entire idea went up in smoke, but at least it did not travel beyond one person. I did not know what to do next, other than continue to drink and write. An option popped into my head soon after. I figured that if I could place a simple thought onto an invitation and then hand it out like a business card, perhaps someone would respond and at least communicate with me about such a project. That facet of the site could explain the relationship between mathematics and physical attractiveness in a formal and professional manner. I had cards manufactured and sent to me, and months later actually handed one of them to a woman. Some time later, another card was given. And then another. In total, six cards had been distributed to picturesque women in various places, all of whom were asked to keep the card from others and destroy it if they were not interested. No response of any kind from any of the subjects. Big fucking surprise. Further down I fell, and even moreso due to the knowledge that nothing would ever come to light. Back into the fucking glass, and that Goddamned chair which was my only apparent companion to such a strange desire." The Meantime n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self is not ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy -- the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy -- who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act. "Well, there it is for fuck's sake. Spoken clearly and to the point, nothing would satisfy or become wondrous any longer. The Raven was the last opportunity and she was most decidedly gone for good. Before her... Michelle. Gone. Fuck me. How I allowed such a situation to develop is beyond consideration. Michelle was a draw unlike all others. Her beauty extended so deep inside that a simple glance of understanding was enough to satiate the remainder of my life's drive. The dream of watching her walk toward me at the Mandalay Bay was nearly too much at the time, and later became the sad film of my seemingly unavoidable demise. The Westin balcony began to look more and more appealing, as did the traffic patterns within downtown San Francisco. Anything which could have come along had the ability to help. Anything. Nothing. Private radii... unknown to anyone So, deeper into the code I went. The young one enjoyed her space as I dove in on a daily basis. We still went out together and gallivanted just as before, but the editor was where I needed to be, always. Without a working model, writing was all I could do. And the feelings flew off the keyboard just as the period when flame was pointed toward the others. Complaining was the order of the time and every word ended up looking like every other. Similar to 1236 and the black MySpace days, the compositions fell further down into a depressive abyss. I expanded the site to include indexing for all of the new titles, and amended the informational page as a warning to readers. That was probably not the best idea, but I figured a disclaimer was overrated and overused, so a bit of text about the direction and nature of the site content seemed necessary -- despite the creative control which came with ownership. Whatever. I put it in there no matter the consequences. Happiness flew from me like blackbirds from a hawk. I did not have a direction nor any idea of how to deal with all of the mounting feelings regarding the mechanics. Along came the never-ending slew of picturesque women on a near-daily basis, and my desire increased ten fold. Couple that with the damage I had caused myself over years of having no release whatsoever, and I somehow knew the cards would never bear fruit. No one would contact me. No one. I had to deal with the fact that everything was at the same fucking dead end I had been slamming into for all that time. Soon after the realization that the dream would never come to light, I began to abandon hope of other projects and hobbies in favor of focusing upon the continuous bitching. All of the essays started to resemble each other... Nothing positive, nothing lit, nothing hopeful. The days were bleeding into one another and the only saving throw was the early morning sessions on Saturdays to sit in front of the singular comfort of the keyboard. That was bad. Outings with others were slowly morphing into simply exercising the killing of time, and work dragged like never before. I had become a fraction of my intelligent, engineering self. The site had worked its way into me as the one force to keep me alive and moving forward at any trajectory other than the sea. Drinking, typing, drowning in thought. Nothing else was real any longer. The more those quiet mornings came and went, the more important they felt to me. I soon dreamed of them beginning with Monday morning and through the rest of the week, as I pushed others aside and sparingly held on to anyone's attention. Daily life had boiled down to a simmering slurry of obsession and need, and on those occasions when an example of such mathematical beauty would stroll by in front of me, well... things went south further. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, nervousness, hypoglycemia brought on by extreme discomfort in watching a dream walk away. The fear continued to mount and grip me like nothing else. That was my routine. Each day dragged. The weeks dragged. The months dragged. My life dragged. Curves leading me into an asylum The questions flowed like the muddy Stanislaus River in spring, and I went even deeper into that damaging and deviant obsession. Daily dreams of what I had seen and experienced only served to push me further down, and all of the words spewed across the Internet like a cloud of blackbirds obscuring the sun. Essays amplified in magnitude and frequency. The keyboard clicked with the depressive thoughts I could not avoid. The gorgeous and sexually-charged images were edited, scrutinized, and added to each week's writing like billboards advertising my strange and overwhelming needs. The women displayed upon the piling pages became the only souls who seemed to hear me. Numbers of the site statistics fell steadily, just as my involvement in normal thought. Everything pushed, everything hurt, and nothing brought me up in any manner. The mornings in front of the editor became a cocoon. Just like an addict of any substance, all of the content and the process of developing and publishing became like a needle in my arm -- scarring me each week and leaving the following session necessary for my survival. I hid in the big chair with headphones on and brain riding a narrow rail at high speed. I had to get the words forward and into production, lest I make the sordid decision to return to any of the suicidal scenes. Michelle's beauty and enormous eyes flashed within me over and over, and the Raven's loveliness and huge heart kept my ass welded to the fucking display. Over and over and over... further and further down... Typing and drinking and typing. I was a sitting syndrome. Fuck me. And then... That morning. The typical combination of coffee and keyboard was happening, with me cozy in my big chair and words flying. I was the only one home with no other plans for the day, which meant I was free to remain glued to the seat with my eyes connected to the twin displays. Along the way -- mid-morning -- I decided to delude myself a bit and add alcohol to the thought processes. Such an idea was wonderful in the beginning, and cut to a few minutes later and I found myself pulling in the scent of the whiskey as it chilled over ice next to the mouse. The more I smelled the smoky-sweet enticement, the more the words began to twist. Soon I was swilling fairly quickly with the keys responding to enhanced heart rate and slurred thought. Before long I was sliding into that familiar hole and defending my position out loud as the damage appeared within the code. I yelled at the window, at the displays, and at myself. I dropped the chair and reclined as far as was feasible, all the while addressing ears which were not present. I reached forward to the keyboard and realized the chair was far too relaxed, and that enraged my distorted thought to the point of refilling the glass and proceeding out to the yard for a cigarette. Pacing, drinking, smoking, and yelling to myself... 'Why?'. Back to the desk and the freshly topped-off cocktail I stumbled. And the words continued to float off the keys -- tormenting, obsessing, longing, and pointed toward myself like the blade which accompanied me on all of the long trips around the state. I swore out loud while typing, threw items around the office, and slammed the chair to its recline limit in order to drop the whiskey down my throat as quickly as possible. I was absolutely poisoning myself with every available substance... Words, chemicals... Any sort of abuse I could find within reach. And the resulting feelings of pain and loss soon drove me back to the beginning. To the knife. The beginning of the end I slowly closed the multitude of programs on the computer, filled my glass yet again, and proceeded out to the yard to find reason. I searched myself over and over, called upon every sordid memory, and felt the need to put a sharp end to all of the losses and voids which had rolled over any upward feelings without remorse. All of the events leading up to that moment had collapsed my outlet and pushed me into a space where only death seemed an option for removing the cutting thoughts and disjointed reality in which I lived. I ran across the yard, back and forth several times, and then back into the office to locate weapons. The keyboard sat there screaming at me but to no avail. Outside again with knife in hand and tears in eyes. I stumbled at the step and lost my glass of whiskey, and following the trail of liquid I crawled toward the grass seeking anything. Crying. Flailing about yet again. Screaming. Help me. Nothing. Eventually I lay there, half out of my shirt and all the way out of my mind, but the knife would not move. I licked at the sunny sky and told myself there was no other way. The yard rolled around in my sight as I scrambled to find reason and will. The loungers in the backyard called for me to slow my pace and breathe, and several moments later I fell into one of them and tried to find calm. Just as in Costa Mesa, the overwhelming confusion and lack of direction had allowed me to seek out the weakness necessary for harming myself. All of the prior issues came to mind and I began to think of my trip back up the state and out of the glitz that was the south coast. I made it... All the way home without much difficulty (other than the bartender's beautiful eyes) and had a bit of time pass before the next frightening episode. How? Who knows. Slipping up and allowing myself to be near the beauty in the world was always a conscious decision. A bad decision, to be certain, but the simple fact is that my need outweighed any possibility of falling determinedly into the bottle and wallowing through an ocean of gorgeous and shapely visions. Add that up and throw in the effects of hurting others and there was nary a path I could see clearly other than death. The whiskey afternoon had brought me back to myself and helped me to realize that the fucking finger was always right there in front of me... Pointing you-know-where. The Raven would not have been happy about my flying fits, but her exit further enabled my ability to remain upright in any manner. When she pressed, I complied... and the reverse was also true. Stronger together? Maybe. However during those moments in the drunken backyard stupor, the Raven was only a part of the reasoning for ceasing my hellish desires. The slight Goddamned positive was the fact that I needed the possibility of someone hearing me. Someone. Anyone. No one. Fuck you. All of the whys... rolling over me Back to the chair and the ill-conceived project I went. I continued in a similar vein for what seemed an eternity, all the while trying to avoid the wondrous and lovely issues which popped up sporadically and pressed me into the hole. The cards proved useless and I began to feel as if the idea of soliciting subjects appeared too deviant for the average person to absorb. So I kept the remaining QRs in the safe. At least that way I did not need to worry about any sort of backlash from a real person -- only myself (no shit). Cards pulled, ass in chair, whiskey in glass, keyboard at hand. That became all I could be... All of the brilliant engineering, structured interests, and years of education coupled with endless possibilities... No more. And the chair eventually turned into the sole place in the world where I could make no apparent mistakes and create that which became this: a coma. The project seemed dead and/or dying, but no decision to force any type of change was made. I could not veer from the path I had created, nor could I entertain anyone else's suggestions regarding how to improve my situation. I simply needed to stay within the dream and spew my thoughts out at the world. Blame was always toward myself, but on occasion I did lash out with accusations in the direction of others before coming to my senses (somewhat) and realizing that I needed to keep all of it to myself. People appeared to me as sheep, but still I knew of the genesis of my issues. All. Me. The Raven had told me of my value during one of our quiet moments, and she further informed me that I was disallowed the idea of steering myself toward harm. I survived the apartment, the Westin, the highway, and the moments between those dramatic demonstrations of weakness. Over time I knew I had to stay alive and continue whatever it was I had began. The images flew through the drives and the keyboard clicked away without pause. The chair held me and provided the little comfort it could despite the ongoing aches within. There I sat. Cut to the present. Now I am in the perpetual aftermath of all of the events and issues which have combined to mold me into a compulsive and depressed individual incapable of rising above and out of the din. Hence, all of it. Sideways, upside down, left, center, broken, wanting, needing... Nothing. Fucking nothing. And I did it, alone. I made it happen throughout more than a decade of desire. Images, calculations, words, dreams, and shit. This is what I am now -- a hole -- void of drive, ambition, and hope. Why? End of line."
The Chair, the Project, and the Perpetual Aftermath
Part Eleven
Mature content No. 51 Published February 5th, 2018 8:11am pst read ( words) Past entries
"Sitting. Nothing. In the wake of the forced walk from the goddess, and the subsequent loss of another fucking goddess, I had no idea what kept me upright. Both of those gorgeous souls brought a wonder into my life which had been missing. And I had no idea where to find any relief from the severe feelings. After all of the events, all of the fucking sobbing and screaming, and the moments of comfort brought to me by the young one, I still did not know which way to turn. I had thrown so much away that the thought of everything combined was crippling my head. I sat -- day after day -- and wondered if I could survive all of the haunting thoughts. The routine between work, home, and visits to the bar became as comfortable as it could, but still the swirling carried me away from myself over and over. [The bags of shit I mentioned on the Internet years ago are still tied to me, and pulling at me with every step.] Yes, thrown everything away which was important. And the career began to become the worst aspect of those decisions. I ended up stuck in a toilsome and tiring job which served to pay expenses but offered little else. As I was aging, the physical aspects of the work were wearing me down at a tremendous pace. Combined with my mental exhaustion, the exit was illuminated many times and during quiet moments. Reflection did not help me to learn a fucking thing. All I could do was wallow and miss those examples of inner and outer beauty. And then write about it in such a manner so as to keep the details compressed and hidden. The exhaustion continued without relief. The upside had become an exploration and catharsis through the web editor. Typing and wallowing were all I had, but at least the exit was kept at bay from time to time. The writing became a massive distraction due to being so technical. I had to engineer the entire site from scratch, and by the time all of the events with the Raven had passed into history, the site had developed into a very professional-looking space. After streamlining and building things into a representation of the inside of my head, the continuance took much less work and allowed for much more exploration. And then the time in front of the code worked its way into me just like a therapist. Yes... the Chair.
The numbers which began to paralyze me
The editor quickly became the only way for me to deal with the fucking obsession. Aside from the wonderful feeling of the Raven allowing me to do anything I wanted or needed, and the goddess being willing to do the same, any real furthering of that facet of my being was decidedly unavailable. I had nothing else. So, soon after transferring all of the site content into active server pages, the direction of everything turned sharply to become the all-encompassing need to find reason. Day after miserable day I sat in that infernal chair continually expressing all manner of dissatisfaction with an empty future and nothing else aside from ramming my head repeatedly onto the Internet. And right there next to the keyboard sat the alcohol. Plenty of it. From beginning to end, each entry fell further into a hole and propelled me downward without mercy. Writing about all of the fantastic models from around the world, the occasional example of mathematical beauty which strolled by my eyes, and then placing all of the frustration and difficulty on the screen alongside monochrome imagery had become my only source of any type of relief. There was simply nothing in the physical world to which I could cling. Words, images, the downward thoughts. That was all of it. Every night was spent wallowing at the bottom of the glass, and each new day brought more visions and less reason. While in the city the examples were often many and unbelievable. Each occasion pushed me further down and created tension between what I needed and all that was lacking. The outlet became more and more of a crutch during those times, as well. The situation began to snowball, and during the most arduous moments I found myself clinging to thoughts of the Westin balcony, the knife, and the traffic. Over and over I rose up in the morning to do my best, and fell down in the evening when all of the thoughts flowed unchallenged. The goddess and the Raven. The Brunette and her eyes. All of it pushed at me without end. Sex and wonder, exploration and discovery, passion and unending physical desire. The goddess. Those days... That beautiful soul with the curves of Venus and Aphrodite combined. Everything of which I dreamed daily was in front of me and mine. And then nothing and no one. Cards? Nope. Needs? Yep. Outlet? Chair... Because the project I worked so hard toward had been ignored like all of the words which poured out for years. The essays became more and more frustrating to produce, and the fucking editor just stared back at me like so many striking women floating about the streets of the city. Fuck it. All that remained was the chair.
The dramatic curves of dreams
At some point I had to force a change. I had to reach out to someone and ask. But there was just no easy way to approach a stranger and open up to them about such a subject and interest. I would have been labeled some sort of deviant and avoided like the plague. I tried to say something on more than one occasion, and even went so far as to reveal part of the obsession to a close friend whom I felt could be trusted. That entire idea went up in smoke, but at least it did not travel beyond one person. I did not know what to do next, other than continue to drink and write. An option popped into my head soon after. I figured that if I could place a simple thought onto an invitation and then hand it out like a business card, perhaps someone would respond and at least communicate with me about such a project. That facet of the site could explain the relationship between mathematics and physical attractiveness in a formal and professional manner. I had cards manufactured and sent to me, and months later actually handed one of them to a woman. Some time later, another card was given. And then another. In total, six cards had been distributed to picturesque women in various places, all of whom were asked to keep the card from others and destroy it if they were not interested. No response of any kind from any of the subjects. Big fucking surprise. Further down I fell, and even moreso due to the knowledge that nothing would ever come to light. Back into the fucking glass, and that Goddamned chair which was my only apparent companion to such a strange desire."
The Meantime n. the moment of realization that your quintessential future self is not ever going to show up, which forces the role to fall upon the understudy -- the gawky kid for whom nothing is easy -- who spent years mouthing their lines in the wings before being shoved into the glare of your life, which is already well into its second act.
"Well, there it is for fuck's sake. Spoken clearly and to the point, nothing would satisfy or become wondrous any longer. The Raven was the last opportunity and she was most decidedly gone for good. Before her... Michelle. Gone. Fuck me. How I allowed such a situation to develop is beyond consideration. Michelle was a draw unlike all others. Her beauty extended so deep inside that a simple glance of understanding was enough to satiate the remainder of my life's drive. The dream of watching her walk toward me at the Mandalay Bay was nearly too much at the time, and later became the sad film of my seemingly unavoidable demise. The Westin balcony began to look more and more appealing, as did the traffic patterns within downtown San Francisco. Anything which could have come along had the ability to help. Anything. Nothing.
Private radii... unknown to anyone
So, deeper into the code I went. The young one enjoyed her space as I dove in on a daily basis. We still went out together and gallivanted just as before, but the editor was where I needed to be, always. Without a working model, writing was all I could do. And the feelings flew off the keyboard just as the period when flame was pointed toward the others. Complaining was the order of the time and every word ended up looking like every other. Similar to 1236 and the black MySpace days, the compositions fell further down into a depressive abyss. I expanded the site to include indexing for all of the new titles, and amended the informational page as a warning to readers. That was probably not the best idea, but I figured a disclaimer was overrated and overused, so a bit of text about the direction and nature of the site content seemed necessary -- despite the creative control which came with ownership. Whatever. I put it in there no matter the consequences. Happiness flew from me like blackbirds from a hawk. I did not have a direction nor any idea of how to deal with all of the mounting feelings regarding the mechanics. Along came the never-ending slew of picturesque women on a near-daily basis, and my desire increased ten fold. Couple that with the damage I had caused myself over years of having no release whatsoever, and I somehow knew the cards would never bear fruit. No one would contact me. No one. I had to deal with the fact that everything was at the same fucking dead end I had been slamming into for all that time. Soon after the realization that the dream would never come to light, I began to abandon hope of other projects and hobbies in favor of focusing upon the continuous bitching. All of the essays started to resemble each other... Nothing positive, nothing lit, nothing hopeful. The days were bleeding into one another and the only saving throw was the early morning sessions on Saturdays to sit in front of the singular comfort of the keyboard. That was bad. Outings with others were slowly morphing into simply exercising the killing of time, and work dragged like never before. I had become a fraction of my intelligent, engineering self. The site had worked its way into me as the one force to keep me alive and moving forward at any trajectory other than the sea. Drinking, typing, drowning in thought. Nothing else was real any longer. The more those quiet mornings came and went, the more important they felt to me. I soon dreamed of them beginning with Monday morning and through the rest of the week, as I pushed others aside and sparingly held on to anyone's attention. Daily life had boiled down to a simmering slurry of obsession and need, and on those occasions when an example of such mathematical beauty would stroll by in front of me, well... things went south further. Heart palpitations, sweaty palms, nervousness, hypoglycemia brought on by extreme discomfort in watching a dream walk away. The fear continued to mount and grip me like nothing else. That was my routine. Each day dragged. The weeks dragged. The months dragged. My life dragged.
Curves leading me into an asylum
The questions flowed like the muddy Stanislaus River in spring, and I went even deeper into that damaging and deviant obsession. Daily dreams of what I had seen and experienced only served to push me further down, and all of the words spewed across the Internet like a cloud of blackbirds obscuring the sun. Essays amplified in magnitude and frequency. The keyboard clicked with the depressive thoughts I could not avoid. The gorgeous and sexually-charged images were edited, scrutinized, and added to each week's writing like billboards advertising my strange and overwhelming needs. The women displayed upon the piling pages became the only souls who seemed to hear me. Numbers of the site statistics fell steadily, just as my involvement in normal thought. Everything pushed, everything hurt, and nothing brought me up in any manner. The mornings in front of the editor became a cocoon. Just like an addict of any substance, all of the content and the process of developing and publishing became like a needle in my arm -- scarring me each week and leaving the following session necessary for my survival. I hid in the big chair with headphones on and brain riding a narrow rail at high speed. I had to get the words forward and into production, lest I make the sordid decision to return to any of the suicidal scenes. Michelle's beauty and enormous eyes flashed within me over and over, and the Raven's loveliness and huge heart kept my ass welded to the fucking display. Over and over and over... further and further down... Typing and drinking and typing. I was a sitting syndrome. Fuck me. And then... That morning. The typical combination of coffee and keyboard was happening, with me cozy in my big chair and words flying. I was the only one home with no other plans for the day, which meant I was free to remain glued to the seat with my eyes connected to the twin displays. Along the way -- mid-morning -- I decided to delude myself a bit and add alcohol to the thought processes. Such an idea was wonderful in the beginning, and cut to a few minutes later and I found myself pulling in the scent of the whiskey as it chilled over ice next to the mouse. The more I smelled the smoky-sweet enticement, the more the words began to twist. Soon I was swilling fairly quickly with the keys responding to enhanced heart rate and slurred thought. Before long I was sliding into that familiar hole and defending my position out loud as the damage appeared within the code. I yelled at the window, at the displays, and at myself. I dropped the chair and reclined as far as was feasible, all the while addressing ears which were not present. I reached forward to the keyboard and realized the chair was far too relaxed, and that enraged my distorted thought to the point of refilling the glass and proceeding out to the yard for a cigarette. Pacing, drinking, smoking, and yelling to myself... 'Why?'. Back to the desk and the freshly topped-off cocktail I stumbled. And the words continued to float off the keys -- tormenting, obsessing, longing, and pointed toward myself like the blade which accompanied me on all of the long trips around the state. I swore out loud while typing, threw items around the office, and slammed the chair to its recline limit in order to drop the whiskey down my throat as quickly as possible. I was absolutely poisoning myself with every available substance... Words, chemicals... Any sort of abuse I could find within reach. And the resulting feelings of pain and loss soon drove me back to the beginning. To the knife.
The beginning of the end
I slowly closed the multitude of programs on the computer, filled my glass yet again, and proceeded out to the yard to find reason. I searched myself over and over, called upon every sordid memory, and felt the need to put a sharp end to all of the losses and voids which had rolled over any upward feelings without remorse. All of the events leading up to that moment had collapsed my outlet and pushed me into a space where only death seemed an option for removing the cutting thoughts and disjointed reality in which I lived. I ran across the yard, back and forth several times, and then back into the office to locate weapons. The keyboard sat there screaming at me but to no avail. Outside again with knife in hand and tears in eyes. I stumbled at the step and lost my glass of whiskey, and following the trail of liquid I crawled toward the grass seeking anything. Crying. Flailing about yet again. Screaming. Help me. Nothing. Eventually I lay there, half out of my shirt and all the way out of my mind, but the knife would not move. I licked at the sunny sky and told myself there was no other way. The yard rolled around in my sight as I scrambled to find reason and will. The loungers in the backyard called for me to slow my pace and breathe, and several moments later I fell into one of them and tried to find calm. Just as in Costa Mesa, the overwhelming confusion and lack of direction had allowed me to seek out the weakness necessary for harming myself. All of the prior issues came to mind and I began to think of my trip back up the state and out of the glitz that was the south coast. I made it... All the way home without much difficulty (other than the bartender's beautiful eyes) and had a bit of time pass before the next frightening episode. How? Who knows. Slipping up and allowing myself to be near the beauty in the world was always a conscious decision. A bad decision, to be certain, but the simple fact is that my need outweighed any possibility of falling determinedly into the bottle and wallowing through an ocean of gorgeous and shapely visions. Add that up and throw in the effects of hurting others and there was nary a path I could see clearly other than death. The whiskey afternoon had brought me back to myself and helped me to realize that the fucking finger was always right there in front of me... Pointing you-know-where. The Raven would not have been happy about my flying fits, but her exit further enabled my ability to remain upright in any manner. When she pressed, I complied... and the reverse was also true. Stronger together? Maybe. However during those moments in the drunken backyard stupor, the Raven was only a part of the reasoning for ceasing my hellish desires. The slight Goddamned positive was the fact that I needed the possibility of someone hearing me. Someone. Anyone. No one. Fuck you.
All of the whys... rolling over me
Back to the chair and the ill-conceived project I went. I continued in a similar vein for what seemed an eternity, all the while trying to avoid the wondrous and lovely issues which popped up sporadically and pressed me into the hole. The cards proved useless and I began to feel as if the idea of soliciting subjects appeared too deviant for the average person to absorb. So I kept the remaining QRs in the safe. At least that way I did not need to worry about any sort of backlash from a real person -- only myself (no shit). Cards pulled, ass in chair, whiskey in glass, keyboard at hand. That became all I could be... All of the brilliant engineering, structured interests, and years of education coupled with endless possibilities... No more. And the chair eventually turned into the sole place in the world where I could make no apparent mistakes and create that which became this: a coma. The project seemed dead and/or dying, but no decision to force any type of change was made. I could not veer from the path I had created, nor could I entertain anyone else's suggestions regarding how to improve my situation. I simply needed to stay within the dream and spew my thoughts out at the world. Blame was always toward myself, but on occasion I did lash out with accusations in the direction of others before coming to my senses (somewhat) and realizing that I needed to keep all of it to myself. People appeared to me as sheep, but still I knew of the genesis of my issues. All. Me. The Raven had told me of my value during one of our quiet moments, and she further informed me that I was disallowed the idea of steering myself toward harm. I survived the apartment, the Westin, the highway, and the moments between those dramatic demonstrations of weakness. Over time I knew I had to stay alive and continue whatever it was I had began. The images flew through the drives and the keyboard clicked away without pause. The chair held me and provided the little comfort it could despite the ongoing aches within. There I sat. Cut to the present. Now I am in the perpetual aftermath of all of the events and issues which have combined to mold me into a compulsive and depressed individual incapable of rising above and out of the din. Hence, all of it. Sideways, upside down, left, center, broken, wanting, needing... Nothing. Fucking nothing. And I did it, alone. I made it happen throughout more than a decade of desire. Images, calculations, words, dreams, and shit. This is what I am now -- a hole -- void of drive, ambition, and hope. Why? End of line."
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