"You only became happy or thrilled with our past after I relieved you of the burden of us, the burden of me expecting you to give a shit. Now everything we did is remembered with fondness by you and now you’re just remembered as a nightmare by me cos I actually gave a shit way back then, I actually gave a shit until I realized there was nothing fond about you. When I realized you weren’t interesting at all and I was intentionally putting you into situations that I thought might just make you interesting to me. it never did but I was still happy. I was at least trying. There’s nothing more pathetic than someone claiming they miss the past only because they don’t feel obligated to run into the future with you anymore.”-from my new book
Excerpt from Blazed:
I’ve never been this alone before. For my whole life, I’ve never belonged anywhere, belonged to anything but I was never all alone. She’s always been there. It doesn’t matter what state she was there in, she was always there. It’s something. It matters. It’s better than nothing.
And now it’s gone.
And I’m totally fucking alone right now.
And I wanna hurt someone so bad. I do. I’d love to take a knife and cut somebody.
Watch them bleed.
Watch them hurt.
Watch them live through pain like I’ve been living through pain all these years.
I’d shoot my father if I had a gun right now. I would. I’d shoot him right in the face and laugh as pieces of his skull fly through the air. That fake. That materialistic prick. And then I’d highjack a fucking airplane and have it fly into the ocean. Just make it fly as far into the sun as it can and then it’s done. It’s over. It crashes into the water and the waves will swallow me and no one will hear a thing.
I’ll just be gone.
And who the fuck cares when they’re alone when they’re just gone.
My new book
This is what it’s about. Blazed:
On my birthday. So happy I look…
Here it is…
Blazed will be available in stores worldwide in 8 months! My best book yet! This story will destroy you:)
Somthing I was thinking about earlier and then wrote
For me, it was the gorgeous smile that always sliced across her face when she saw me walking towards her. How she ran her hand through her hair a couple of times to make sure it was just the way she wanted it look even though it was already perfect. How quickly she batted her eyes the closer I got to her. And how nervous and unsure she became the nearer I got as if somehow, she thought she wasn’t as beautiful as she was, as she’d always been to me. The innocence of those moments spoke louder to me than anything that was ever said afterwards. These wonderful moments of heart pounding anticipation that exist before we go and ruin them by talking.
So on my birthday, I remember this…
I did a radio interview like two years ago and the girl interviewing me asked me who I wrote for and I answered, “I write for kids who are more inspired by Wu-Tang Clan than the President. I write for kids who go to sleep every night listening to Beach House. I write for kids who buy another bag of blast at three in the morning just so they can stay up and listen to the new Growlers record one of them was able to download for free. I write for kids who get cruelly dumped by a boy or girl and then turn to the novels of S.E. Hinton for answers and friends, or find solace and comfort in a Deerhunter record, or escape in a Wes Anderson or Paul Thomas Anderson movie. And I write for kids who treat their art as a religion.” Then there was a pause. And I went , “And I write for myself too. Because I’ve done and still sometimes do everything I just mentioned. And without writing, I’d be lost. It’s the only thing I’ve found that allows me to make sense of anything. Think about that.” There was another pause. “This is what people mean when they say that art saved them.”
I fucking love whoever did this!
I find the bathroom and I throw up in the toilet. The Oxy has completely derailed me yet I feel so fucking good right now too. I took off my shirt and jacket before I started puking to make sure I didn’t get any discharge on either of them.
From the living room, that Strokes song, “Someday” blasts from the speakers. I smile while I think about how I picked Mona up in her underwear the morning after we spent our first night together and slammed her onto the coffee table and just fucked her with so much urgency and passion while I made us breakfast-crepes-hash browns-hot links-fresh fruit-bloody marry’s-and this same song blasted from my Ipod. God, the beginning was so nice and so full of promise.
Like, I talk so much shit now about her. I do. And it doesn’t make me feel better and it certainly doesn’t make me look good while I’m doing it and it often makes me dislike myself more than anything because I’m completely trashing something I intentionally tried to build and make work.
But man, there were moments that were so fucking good in the beginning, like any relationship, moments that bring these huge smiles to my face when I think about them. Moments that have the ability to completely overwhelm me and trigger this sensation throughout me which disregards the present, the state in which we’ve found ourselves in, and wants nothing more than to snatch the past back from the cruel hands of time, reality, and the bitter experiences, and force it to become what it once was.
To turn something like me fucking her on a coffee table during breakfast into this never ending, absolutely perfect structure, where every second is so good and the low is me coming inside of her and realizing it’s going to be at least ten minutes before I can fuck her again.
I even think about texting her while I sit on the toilet now, covered in sweat and the cold water I drenched myself with to cool off.
But what’s the point.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned more than anything else in my life, it’s that you can’t go back.
You just can’t.
Life happens, you make lots of choices, and you start doing things to people, sometimes monstrous things, and you hurt the people you love-at the time at least-the most, and as you watch the situation dissolve and spoil and become so rotten and toxic that you’ve discovered that you’ve spent more time thinking and saying the worst things about this person in the last hour than you’ve spent saying or thinking anything good about this person during the last week, doing something as desperate and as insincere as sending a text in the middle of the night about some fleeting memory, a memory that the two of you most certainly would recall differently if you were asked to, a memory of what you consider to have been an amazing moment even though you only stopped to think about it again after you heard an average song start playing at some stranger’s house party, is so fucked up and so incredibly disingenuous and ultimately irrelevant, it poses the more serious question of how did this whole thing ever get this fucking far and how much life did both of you drain from the other while attempting to preserve something so obsolete and so meaningless, it could only be rediscovered after vomiting in a strangers bathroom and hearing a familiar chorus.