Of course I am a liar. How else could I make any of this look good/work at all? It’s not that it is wrong or even emblematic of some situational ethics or moral relativism. It’s just that the truth is just as much of a fiction as anything else. So why hide from it? Why deny it and by doing so lose power over it. I am the creator of my own destiny because I have chosen to manufacture it myself. I have chosen to be the madcap liar writing my profanities on the underground walls of all existence. Wait for me, I’ll find you soon enough. Wait for me.
There is vitriol enough in me to power three punk bands and several excessively angsty books of bad poetry and even worse pen and ink drawings of the flawed circuitry of my mental process. God, but the suburbs bring out the worst in me. Ever the misanthrope I daily find myself wishing only to raise a black flag and jolly roger my way around my happily corrosive community raping and pillaging the automatons back to something vaguely resembling being alive.
The fun no longer has any bearing on life. The sun has drifted from its cardinal path and now refuses to show the way. Star charts having already lost their importance have now lost all meaning. And we refuse to acknowledge that anything has changed. I think I should get another beer. Or maybe it was take a nap. I can’t remember which silently complacent activity is appropriate to the situation. Perhaps this is the moment in which I was supposed to learn to cry.
It’s like I am so too easily distracted; confused and yet entirely aware. I know what is going on even when I refuse to pay attention. Osmosis, it seeps in. the tape keeps looping through my brain, the scanners playing old cartoons that no one ever drew and graphic and disturbing scenes that one can only hope will never see the blinding light of day. There is so much there, to distill it, to bottle it, to pour it over ice and drink it slowly and sensually is damn near impossible. I barely know how to begin. There is no road map, no X marks the spot for this treasure hunt. No wonder I refused to choose a path in the woods. No wonder it didn’t make a difference. Lack of wonder is the leading cause of heat death in America.
I was born in the fading autumn of ’83. the only moment of significance in any otherwise stultifying era, I brought the promise of a new era; a road made straight and then destroyed and made the way I imagined it should be. Don’t listen to me. I don’t know anything. The story is always better when you invent the ending yourself. So here is the beginning of my manifesto. Here is my anthem for yet another generation of disenfranchised disillusioned dissolute youth. Raise your fists my brothers and sisters for we are a people born of defiance and we will rail against the coming dawn with a beer in both hands.
One day we’ll look back on all of this and smile. But on that day I won’t be alone, so I might just be smiling for her.