It was right there on the desk. No sign of Mikey. The house empty. Even though he had had his own place, he did frequent my shitty, cheese-wedge-shaped apartment (a tiny, drafty slice of a large house separated from the other renters) a lot, and would leave behind a dingy, rust-stained pillow with no pillowcase, a toothbrush, and maybe a half-consumed Copenhagen chew canister now and then — other such artifacts.
These were all gone. He was giving me one of his pep talks the night before about body positivity and sexual acceptance and stuff like that. I remember he was on a roll, and some of the stuff he was saying was actually helping me to feel better.
But now all the signs he was ever here were removed, except the blackened husk of an abandoned Tombstone pizza in the oven and a note on the table, wet with spilled coffee. He must have kept thinking and writing — and drinking — long after I went to bed.
Before I passed out we had been talking about porn and this thing I had where I thought I had contracted every STD in the world.
I'd actually been tested multiple times for various stuff, but there is some stuff you can't test for. And that's the kind of shit that really fired my imagination in the worst possible way. And it wasn’t that I thought I had a disease that was the worst. It was wondering how many people I was potentially infecting and killing just by sharing drinks, a kiss, or even just talking and accidentally spitting. How many girls would have cervical cancer because of me down the line because maybe I had HPV in my mouth from that nasty girl I made out with in Kentucky? So now when me and a new girl I liked kissed, it could go to her mouth, too. And then what if she gets a new boyfriend later and gives the dude a blowjob and he gets it on his fucking dick and then fucks her and then now she has it in her vagina all because of me? I told Mikey I had to let them know I might have it. Otherwise look at the catastrophic series of events that could be set in motion.
Mikey said I should see a psychologist about that. It wasn’t normal. I was also still trying to go to church sometimes, but hated it in equal parts. But I told Mikey when you're raised like that it really gets into you. At one point Mikey cut me off:
I’ve rubbed my dick raw over the years man! There's nothing to be ashamed of!
Usually it was just 'cause I was bored or lonely. It's also just 'cause... biology, dude.
The moralizer cops and church-y morons will tell you stuff about your body and root nature being evil. It's all trash.
Now I will tell you this.
Some shit out there as we both fucking know is shit, and a bunch of fucking sleazy “Todd” fuck bros and old fucks preying on women. But also people that go headlong into porn and are jerking it 12 hours a day and stuff are pretty much always depressed and looking for human connection. They're starved.
I asked Mikey how he was not "starved."
Your problem man is that you think you're dirty and diseased and everything is evil so you end up blowing a gasket every time and ACTUALLY DO end up in bad situations.
People comfortable with their bodies and without a bunch of shame inside don't end up naked in hallways with girls they just met three hours ago, and hymen blood all over their jeans the next day, man. Sheezus. Not unless it's 100% intentional. For you it was 100% a desire to black out — to OBLIVIATE your feelings of unworthiness.
He was on a roll now.
You found acceptance when you finally thought the whole world thought you were dirty. She treated you — even though you were both wrecked — like you mattered and were a clean, normal person. And that's what you fucking wanted, man. And that's what you gave her, too. But you're doing it in a way that ain't good for you. You've gotta come out of it. Fuck religion and all that shit. You're not dirty, man.
I've been there. In that stupid fucking faggot brainwash. And got out.
Can you not say "faggot."
It just means they're all flaming fucked for all kinds of dumb shit. Relax. Not about gay people. The statists are faggots too, for the state, but I'll call them "flaggots" if it makes you feel better.
I picked up the letter from the coffee puddle and read it:
Sometimes I wonder what the point is of existing.
Nobody will ever understand you.
Be assured of that.
But if the timing is right, they might be able to stand with you, sort of. And to vaguely sense what you were about, maybe. And appreciate it.
I think I'd like instead of a funeral for people I love to go through my room and look at all the books and trinkets and CDs and notes and pictures — my bottles of Scotch and stuff — I have in there. And the songs I've recorded and stuff. Then they can see maybe what I was about, in a way. But of course I'd want you to hide the piss bottles and stuff first and maybe give it a sweep.
I’m the simplest motherfucker that ever lived.
All I want is to be somewhere and nowhere at the same time. Does that make sense? To belong but also to never stop moving! And to never "belong"! I guess this is a flowery way to say "travel."
And to hit the G spot of the universe and let everyone know that everything is going to be okay.
That’s a stupid line, but it really is like that.
When I think about that deer trapped in the courtyard of the school. Well, I think that’s who we are.
But I also don’t believe the hippie bullshit about when you die you just join a soup of dumb consciousness. I mean there's something to that consciousness thing, but it's way off. You'll always be an individual. That's the beauty of everything.
All rivers go from the mountains to the sea, of course.
But I can see: The only way to KNOW we are "one" is to be INDIVIDUATED!
You can't be anyone else.
That’s the point of this whole goddamn experiment.
To learn how to best be ourselves. And you’re beautiful man. Remember next time when you get down:
Divinity is being able to laugh about the animal side of ourselves, and thus become human.
And that serves everyone else, too.
Everyone is very beautiful if they can be themselves.
We can teach each other everything,
So let’s start crying and laughing with them big belly laughs.
And STOP COPYING.
For love to be real...
If there is a god, god has to be an anarchist. There's no other way, if you really think about it. You can't force people to love and then call it "love," can you? And if god's an anarchist, god wouldn't give a fuck if you believed or not. I mean, if you knew everything about everything, are you going have a stick up your ass about some poor idiot being too pitiably dumb to get it? Nah.
So drop all that man.