Two young boys are snickering next to me on a couch. I can tell they're talking about me. It's annoying. What, do I have spinach in my teeth? They can't know who I am. No one ever knows me.
"Excuse me. Are you The Bunny?"
"Yeah. I am."
"Cool. I like your blog."
"Thanks."
That's it, I think. But then, I don't ever get recognized, so I don't know how that goes. I always imagine that when I write, the writings go out into the ether and hit maybe five or six people who read my stuff because they're bored, and two laugh at me and then the other three or four are just completely insouciant and forget my writings as fast as they read them. I think this not because it is what happens when I write, but because I suffer from the illnesses of the mental kind, which hurts and sucks.
But they're not done, the boys, not the problems. They want to talk more. They continue talking into my face.
"Did Tucker really do all those things you wrote in your list?"
Oh, the list. That stupid fucking list. How long was it up? Four hours in 2004? Have you read it? Everybody's read it. Tucker did this; Tucker did that. Stupid, stupid list. It's the only thing I've regretted writing, and yesterday I wrote about decapitating my grandmother. I only regret the list.
I think my excuse to take it down was: "My dad would be so mad at me if he knew I let someone treat me like that." I thought at the time he would give a shit. Funny how false the things we convince ourselves to be true are when we rub out reality with drugs for long enough a period of time.
Ever been haunted or stalked? Ever though someone was following you? Stupid list. Everywhere there's any "me" on the internet there's that fuckin' list. I don't read it. Drama between two addicts is only juicy if you're neither of the addicts, and if you're the pathetic one doing all the whining, it's not only an experience completely void of merit, it's sickening.
I have to say, though:
Say you're surfing the internet, and you read the sad, desperate ranting of a mentally ill girl in a relationship with a mentally ill boy--so mentally ill at that time, he's not sure there's much difference between her and a crash test dummy--a girl who's broke and unemployed, a girl who has no control over her identity, a bitch of a personality disorder that renders her completely bedridden/useless unless combined with an abuser and no place to go to get help that won't be a place she's treated like an inanimate object...
...and you say "Ha ha! She deserved it."
I mean, wow. What a piece of shit you are. Nobody deserves mental illness. It hurts and it sucks.
Edit: Just to clarify, I do not regret writing about my mental illness. I never will. Its the gutsiest thing I've ever done.
I regret whining about my mental illness.
Posted by The Bunny at 2:28 AM