I Am Schumer

The light is too dark, the music is too quite, the people are too loud, and goddamn this coffee smells more like the bottom of my grandma’s bunioned-out feet than it should. I am angry all of the time, not at people, not at the world, but only ever at myself. How am I supposed to start my battle against life when I have never ended this battle within myself. Some say, “There are two dogs in me” other, more freaky, MILF-loving folks dig, “Inside of each of use, there is one personality that wants to fuck your mom, the Id, and one side that wants to hit on 15 year old girls during hypnosis, the Superego.” I think you may need to rethink that thought you fucked up Freud. But beyond his fucked up sense, I can see that I am egoless. I do not have a Superego or Id, nor do I want to fuck my overly-anxious helicoptering Mother. My faces are multitudinous, always at war, and never productive. In fact their main goal that they can all agree on is to never let me see any form of benefit or gain to my fucked up sense for meaning in life.

One face wants to find sadness and morose in anything I may do, no matter how I may enjoy it at points, see value in it, or want to explore its avenues more to move forward. This face is the fuckhead that leaves me laying in bed, knowing I’m missing a shift. It sinks my stomach below the floorboards and blinds me with think tears of my own causing. I go crazy at the sound of its indigestion caused by pounds of Taco Bell, Coffee, Cigarettes, and the least amount of water possible muffled by the skinniest, warped, water-logged ash floor boards placed in my cheap, slanted, overly transparent student apartment.

“Ah, the values of East Campus,” I think as I want to do nothing more than gouge my eyes out and run to the nearest police station to allow them to do something I don’t have balls to do.

Another face laughs at the “humor” stated before. It just doesn’t care. It is a defensive face that has lead me to suffer this long. A face of pure apathy that could see the horrors of war and sit there assumably shell-shocked yet laughing as if it were Leland Palmer wandering around the Great Northern. A face that does not care is shelter during emotional thunderstorms with a Suicide Watch that is showing some rotation. Sirens could not move me in this face, but sadly neither could gold, rainbows, or a way out. Apathy and Sadness is a necessary duo for longevity, but a completely destructive duo for those looking for a way out. I might as well put my name on this Shortwave seat, for it only sit here, I never explore, and quite frankly this is where I’d make that decision if I ever get pushed far enough away from that blanket of apathy.

My final face is what I believe to be my truest one, but my weakest. It is a kid that keeps getting hung up on a pole by its underwear and beat around by #1 while #2 just stares pointing its sickly finger going “HA HA”. It is the patiently waiting, shy outcast at a dinner party raising its finger to get a word in between the two cousins that have just started with throwing the green bean casserole at each other and are eyeing the mac n’ cheese bomber and deviled egg grenades. After the evening is over, he can’t stop cursing himself for not speaking up and stepping in, for it was all his fault and he needs to better. Stifled in the background, he is the angriest face, but the most benevolent one. He wants shit to get done, and gets so pissed off at himself for not stepping up and doing so. He is the lost face. He sees the debt grow, the money disappear, and the jobs flee as if the other two faces create a Godzilla of an employee.

Fuck an Id and a Superego, I just want to be something, someone, some inkling of an human that has a purpose to do anything of merit not to the world but just for the other two faces to feel something, and as stated before, that is impossible.

Therefore, I just sit and rot on this chair. Acting like I’m applying for jobs, throwing my fist through my computer for not knowing WordPress, endlessly disassociating in the smells of shit and sounds of Modest Mouse, and like every 20-something-year-old writer think about applying to law school. The life of a miserable fuck that is lost way too early in life to ever end up finding his original destination, much less a destination of any merit.

P.S. to any job that read this, I hope you can move past the senseless self-deprecation and see the vent of a writer trying to fit his skillset to anything with words, quite literally anything that gets my writing a north, for right now, it is a broken compass full of thoughts of acting like an alphorn yelling FUCKOFFAAA from the tallest mountain of my mind.