Blogupacional Hypnotherapy

52 to 48. I took this online test about a year ago and yet the result sticks with me. 52 to 48.

48 is how much of me is lust. 52 is love. And that seems about right.

After all, 48% writes prOn--THAT is another story for another time, I'm just prattling on right now before I fall prey to the television at the bottom of the hour and grooving on some Audioslave--and 52% of me, even as I write, thinks, "Well, there's got to be more to it than THIS, right?"

48% of me looks down and sees a scarlet V all the time. It just doesn't matter, work, home, shopping center, and it feels the V is noisy and loud. "LOOK AT ME! I'M A FREAK! BEARDED LADY, LOBSTER BOY, VIRGIN! WOOGIE BOOGIE!. The 52 is saying "It's not that important", but you know what? 52 gets weak every so often, and he can see the V. He might not hear it--or might not choose to for his own safety--but he sees it, and in that moment the 2% gap narrows.

I'd be lying if I said I haven't been in love before. It's awesome, I assume it would be like that first line of cocaine before the downward spiral. You smile a little more, the sky's a little clearer, and it's all the shit you see in movies, film, and other pop culture. However many times it is I've put my love out, it's never been returned.

Fucking OW.

See, this is where pop culture fails. There's nothing worse than watching your heart just get pushed in a wheat thresher and not being able to stop it. And the pain doesn't really go away, at least not in my case. Places, things, songs, colors--reminders. You walk along in the day just fine, you're messing with the radio dial, "Wonderwall" comes on and it's like a gunshot to the face. Just sitting there, in the dark, every memory you pushed to the back clearing it's way to the front of the line. You taste that regret in your mouth, like munching aluminimum foil. You feel heavy, like your heart is about to go and you don't really care if it does, because to paraphrase Dogma, it's better to be dead than be in hell. Yeah, after the first couple of weeks, time heals it a little bit.

No one ever mentions scar tissue and how the slightest jolt can just make you start bleeding all over the place again. Now you've got to get somewhere, and fix it, and you do. But it's touch and go. Another wrong touch, and you'll go off like a hemophiliac at a Ginsu convention. Sometimes you get slagged enough to where the heart's almost entirely scar tissue, and then you're really fucked. You walk sideways like Nicholson in As Good As It Gets, because you know any wrong move--a scrape, a punch, not looking where you're going--and you're going to bleed to death in the sidewalk.

You know, in the lighter moments when it doesn't get to me so much, I remember a guitar pick I saw Dave Navarro have. It listed all the guitarists that weren't Flea in the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and all the names before him had a line through them. And underneath "Dave", there was a simple question mark. In the lighter moments I think of listing all the girls I loved and didn't love me, followed by a question mark. It'd make an excellent shirt, but I get the feeling besides it being a massive in-joke it's a little too easy for it to switch from "self-mocking shirt" to "the last thing we saw him alive in".

I could make a girl happy. I'm just not. And some days that's fine. And some nights I look out the window and instead of indifference it makes me want to take a A-bomb and sprinkle it around the world.

I don't know why I'm talking about this now.

This is not a personal ad; or it's the worst one in the history of mankind. *shakes head* There's a lot of chaos upstairs, if you hadn't noted.

I'm standing in the circle, alongside everyone else. And the music plays, and I walk around. I feel an impending sense of doom, why I don't know, but I keep walking like everyone else smiling like everyone else, for the impending sense of doom is merely impending and yet to present itself.

And then the music stops, and I scramble for a chair, and I hang on. Someone else is out. There goes the chair.

And the music starts again, and it suddenly occurs to me: you know, pretty soon, YOU'RE going to be the one who's out.