Only God can judge me...

I understand why people get this painstakingly tattooed all over their body... They're renegades, losers, outcasts. They've been picked on and scrutinized. They've been told they're wrong. They've been shunned. I'm right there with you... but... but...

But how could God, a man/alien/invisible arrogant entity, that made us and loves us, judge us.

I have loved and I love now. There’s a blond-haired, blue-eyed rambunctious 6-year-old who breaks every toy car he gets and only eats frozen corn, cinnamon waffles and whole watermelons, that is the love of my life. He’s family, he’s blood, I tear up every time I have to leave him and I didn’t even make him.

But I love him… And never, no matter what he failed, what he questioned, what he snorted or what he killed would I ever wish to see him hurt. I would give up my eyes to hear that boy say, “Belly, I love you.”

Everyday people get hurt; people suffer for no fault of their own. Where is the God that loves them? Don’t tell me it’s divine… It’s only narcissism.

If there is a God that made me and loves me… Would he not be watching me now—writing words that contradict what “he” is in every religion—and think, ‘Look at those fingers floating above those keys as that dark independent cerebral jumble turns.’ Would he not say, “Look at those intense eyes that hold the weight of every outcast. Look at that smooth skin that hides her grief. Look at how everything’s working so beautifully and all her past has worked so well to make her the way she is.”

That’s the God I wanted to believe in, so as not to fear a meaningless death, until I realized I was only using my imagination.

Because no matter what atrocities may happen to the world, my friends, my family, myself I will not believe in evil. From Charles Manson to Ted Bundy, they were all someone’s Cole. Yeah, it seems a fuse busted, a switch was flipped, but that’s psychological not devilish. Right and wrong has been based on societal ideas and what works forever. We don’t kill people today on the regular because we know that kind of justice just doesn’t work all that well… Eventually the dad, the mom, the minions of the murdered might murder someone close to you. It’s cause and effect, it’s problem solving, it’s the evolution of a thought.

And after all this explaining of how the mysteries of God work, they say, “You’ll have your epiphany.” But no good people, it’s not a revelation it’s the realization your life is relatively meaningless. It’s no epiphany but an effectuation.

But wait…. Although your life might not have some vast all encompassing meaning that everyone sees and knows it can have meager meaning that impacts so much… it just happens a little at a time. So instead of trying to make an impression on that godhead in the clouds, why not focus on making an impression on the people around you. Our lives aren’t about working towards an afterlife; they’re about working to keep a life after ours.

Inanimate objects are much better lovers

It turns my stomach to even remember, which is an improvement that I even care. The second hand kept landing on nine every time I glanced at it, making me wonder whether I would be stuck in this moment till he was happy with my answer, but the minute hand was quickly skipping recognizing my flight time, sympathizing with me, hoping it would end soon. And it did…

I was out of town. And I can’t stress enough how good it felt. To leave in the night with no one knowing where you are or where you’re going. Oh, cold concrete and striped blacktop you are my love. I will never leave you, no matter how much some brave, disjointed emotion or warm, relaxed hands could give. I am yours and am too selfish to share.   

I parked and went inside the Super 8 around 4 AM. An Indian woman—eyes closed and joints stiff—gave me room 106. The box smelled like stale cigarettes and too little detergent. With every light turned on I still had a hard time seeing the stains on the now off-white sheets. The mattress rustled as if it were made of paper and the pillows were only their cases. The pen on the nightstand had been decapitated of its inked point.

As I scribbled I wondered how many other people like me had been here before, writing frivolously, happy, alone. I only wish to meet one of them. Maybe next time I’ll ask at the front desk, I need a room with a vagabond type who travels only with a pad of paper and a pen, mentally exhausted but relieved finally, ambiguous but readily available if you ask the correct questions, immoral but not tonight. No preference on sex or age but must be a smoker.

I slept better there than in my own bed. The farther away from my own comforts, the easier it is to sleep.

He left me with, “I’d rather be miserable.”

We only agreed once.

I wondered why we weren't together...

I know what I want, but not well enough to pin it down. I just get so overwhelmed...

"Fuck you... And you wonder why I have a hard time feeling. It's because of girls like you..."

I spent 30 minutes in my car, salt running down my cheeks smudging the black I use to try to be presentable down my chin. And not because of the above line... That was just a consequence of the rest. I could care less what one person, even a hundred people, want to judge me for.

It feels different, somehow more lonely,  when I'm crying here. Back home, I held it in until I was safely in my room, no one to ask me what was wrong, but I knew my mother and father were right downstairs in case I decided I couldn't handle everything by myself. I always did... But now I would give anything to have my mom right downstairs, sleeping, ready to wake up in a terrified wale if I snuck into her room. I'd give anything to tell my mother everything that's going on... But I couldn't even if she didn't care to know.

I was sitting in my car... ready to run.... like always. I can't explain what's going on and I don't want people to see the frail, needy me that I hide. I actually can't tell if I'm hiding it or it isn't that much a part of me... I'd like to think the latter but I won't rule out the predecessor.

I think it's just a little harder for me now... without the cutting, without the alcohol, without the drugs... to cope with all that I have going on... especially in this nearly schizo matter in my head making me crazy. It would be so easy to fall back into any of those things... I did them well for so long.

This is all most likely just a rambling mess... No description, just ranting. I'm not even going to read through it because I'll hate it all.

I'm to critical.

I'm done crying... My face is stiff from dried tears and my body aches for something more. I'll never stop, you know.