text: No one likes climbing up an old rickety ladder. I try not to be a pussy, but it scares the shit out of me personally. Holding on anxiously, the grip of your hand tightening just to be safe. Exhaling deeply once your feet find the next raised platform and you near the top. Shit... I should set the scene better; small town vibes, but it’s technically a city, but... it’s not really. It's late, almost midnight. The night sky is striking, the moon's beams flying through the sky. Feeling the chills and breeze of the hour. Climbing up a ladder on top of some office building on the hill in the back of the town, that’s a little sketchy, but you kind of feel cool and dangerous for doing something so rebellious, while at the same time feeling a sense of identity from it. I realize that I'm an 18 year-old alone doing something so disastrously sad but try not to let it bother me. The highway speeds by, bustling life right behind me. I’m a little sheltered by trees and fences. In my own little bubble, my own environment and identity conversing. Behind me society still goes on. I wonder if any of them saw me up on this ladder, what would they think? Suicide? Maybe badass? “He’s not like the other boys” they’d think. I walked up the side steps of this old office space- It’s kind of in nowhere land a mile past downtown- to the second story which is on a raised platform that circles around the sides of the building. One time I was sadly dwelling in this area listening to some music that I like to consider indie and emo, because let’s face it, if there’s not skipping hi-hats and an 808 in the song, you can pretend you have taste. And saw that there was a ladder to the roof. I thought, i’m pretty sad and alone. Maybe if I climb this ladder and check out the view on this roof this experience will be a little more than that and maybe even be special. Also I think, going up there might even be... illegal. Wow! Now people probably know I'm distraught, ooh goody. I did end up going up there, obviously, and was it special? Ehh, who cares. Anyway, now it’s a little thing I do to be edgy. Chill on a roof overlooking town, jamming, enjoy the view’s, romanticize maybe bringing a girl or a group of friends one time with me and having a cool cinematic moment where we smoke, get high, and almost die or something. Now that’s a way to live as an 18 year old right? As the pictured scene above dies out in my head a minute after settling on the roof. Reality tugging on my shoulder incessantly reminding me that I don’t have friends and am rather sitting up on the roof with my tight-nit set of problems instead. There’s something so cruelly refreshing about the night. It’s like, yeah you’re alone... but also, yeah, you’re alone! Everything seems in reach but so hopelessly far away and the moment the big bright ball of reality rises back up, your short vacation of fantasy and idealism is gone and the dread of reality is back up, and now everyone can see you and look at you in all your glorious misery. The day time sucks dick. Another little tid-bit: I like to dress up when I go out alone at night. I’m very hopeless and romantic, but you must respect it. Aesthetic continuity is important, it's a real thing. If you saw Harry styles not in his cool celebrity clothes but instead in your dad's jeans, white air monarchs and a tucked in short sleeve plaid shirt. Fuck he still might look cool but, it’s just different. Whenever I'm actually laying down on the roof, looking up into the stars. Attempting to relax. Anxiety always grabs me by the dick and gives me a fist full. I try not to let it bother me. Why would they have a ladder drilled onto the side of the building as an access to the roof if it wasn’t safe. It had a paneled roof like a regular home would, but it looked dense and solid. I’d been thinking about death a lot, I really wanted to end my life. Anyway, you may be wondering, what’s my problem? Why am I this vampire? Well if I was so vulnerable, open and cheery I wouldn’t be here would I? And if i’m not here, then who am I? So silly of you to ask. If you see a lowlife like me, maybe someone your age, presumably under 30- because at that point I’d just call it- and think what do you do? I’ll give you a rundown. Psycho-analyze them... assume everything and make a game out of it. How many weirdo’s can you guess correctly? I’ve never tested it, but it sounds fun. See how I’m good at making serious things funny and humorous, that’s a sign. I do that a lot. If I were to approach me, well- first off be hot, it’s a disgusting truth but it helps a lot. To be truthful just, be honest. Portray a genuine image of yourself and I think the other will- through the forces of who the fuck know’s- feel that energy and do the same back. We are all so fake- by the way I’m no longer on the roof. I’m now biking down the empty streets to my old middle school. It’s a blissful experience. To be free in your pain. Just the act of riding down a street alone at night, it’s a shedding of some of that pain. It gives me control. I worry about people seeing me out, why should I worry at all? It’s my truth, it’s how I feel. They can go fuck themselves if they judge. LIVE YOUR LIFE. Dishonesty really is a disease, it causes physical pain, mental pain, it ruins lives. It's self inflicted pain too. I never thought I was important enough to be truthful to people just because my life wasn’t sunshine and rainbows. So I was fake to everyone, so no one ever knew me, and I stayed alone. I enjoy biking down the halls of my old middle school listening to radio head, but it’s a process of healing, sometimes it feels like self-condemnation. It’s not really a choice either. I’ll be up late distraught and unfulfilled, seemingly locked inside the box of my house, desperate for any way to release my displeasure. I’ll usually look for drug’s- I never have any- then I’ll decide I need to get the fuck out of this house. Exploring the old campus, I realize how long it’s been since I’ve seen any of these room’s. I used to go here... I used to be here 5 times a week. I was a lot shorter back then. I have to wonder how my old teachers are doing. Living the teacher's life most likely. Whatever that is. Teacher’s actually have it pretty good, yell at kids, joke around with a bunch of dumbasses. You could also just be overtly cruel and that’s totally cool too. The spectrum of teacher’s is quite a spectrum: you have the god’s, the ones who are precious and amazing, and also those that seem more fictional and cruel than Michael Scott as CEO of dunder mifflin. I had a favorite teacher in High School, she was great. She had a daughter that was a freshman in my senior year which was a weird twist. When your weird short sort of nerdy english teacher’s daughter is a self described influencer on instagram and is almost the epitome of the white girl tik tok influencer culture it’s just a weird thing. No shame or anything, I just grew close with that teacher, she helped me a lot. Near the parking lot of the school the flagpole kept making a loud bang. It was scaring the shit out of me. The harness for the flag, a great assistant to patriotism everywhere wouldn’t shut the fuck up and was being blown by the wind towards the pole and smacking it. I don’t know how American that is. Anyhow, with any flash of light I’m scared it’s a person, It’s around 1am at a middle school so I usually presume it’s merely my manly anxieties behind the thought. Until I saw some girl walking up a hall. Now normally you see a girl, you run, right? Well I've put the practice into strategy before but my hope was that she wasn’t normal, because she was here. I’ve never really identified with normal, I’ve so wanted to but normal is scary. I don’t know how to communicate with it. She was walking up the hall in black stone washed jeans, her legs dragging slightly. A green beanie on, and an oversized flannel. I gave it a second of thought and quickly decided to not talk to the random girl. Who the fuck walks around a middle school campus alone past midnight. Jesus christ women. See atleast im riding a bike, it’s a more explainable activity. I did pass by her though. Anyone else get the dilemma of whether to look at someone's face when you're walking by them? I’ll be honest, I'm not the perfect picture, I'm no mona lisa. As far as I can tell I’m in the mid-tier of fuckable, which is a weird tier to be in. It’s like is it a yes or no? Why is it a niche thing, where if there’s alcohol and someone feels pitiful towards me it’s a yes, but if it’s a more normal encounter it’s a no. I decided to look at this girl in the face. I'll admit she wasn’t cute at all. I need to complain about that because if this is my coming of age film why the fuck is random weirdo girl coincidentally walking the halls at the same time as me this late at night not fucking hot. It’s bullshit, I’ve said it many times but once again I've found proof that there is no god. I did get a whiff of weed as I passed her though. I’ve had a few interactions with the substance, don’t mean to come off as a total badass, but I’ve been in the vicinity before, I’ve taken a few hit’s. And the idea struck me to go approach her and ask if I could hit her usb port or whatever the fuck. Of course The Smith’s was playing in my ear’s which is literally the soundtrack to being alone and desperate at night. Which convinced me that weed is what I need. So I turned back around and peddled towards her. “Hello” I whispered... (anxiety) She pulled out her earbuds which reminded me to do the same. “Uhh.. hi?” I stuck my hand out, and about 5 seconds after I realized I had my hand out. I then asked myself why I had my hand out... I couldn’t give myself an answer and pulled my hand back in then put it into my pocket, as smooth and cool as I could. “Any chance I could smoke whatever it is you're smoking?” “Wow, ok, sure. What are you doing out here.” “Ohh you know” “I really don’t” “Ok well what the fuck are you doing out here?” “I live like a couple blocks away. I just can’t smoke in my house” “Well, that makes a lot of sense. So you have friends and stuff? Your life isn’t in shambles i'm assuming. Right?. Right?” “Um, yeah.” “Wow. Ok, that's good I suppose”.... “So can I get the pen or whatever your smoking” She nodded and handed it over to me. “Just don’t run it dry, only a hit or two” “Don’t worry about that I’m biking home and I’m a bitch boy- I have no tolerance at all.” Quick mental confession: not that I keep this a secret, but my mouth doesn’t work that well. Atleast that’s one reason I give to why I haven’t made out or smoked a lot. I think she could tell because the look she gave me while I was hitting her pen was... distinct? Smoking is supposed to have a cool aesthetic to it. You breathe out the smoke into the air and hold it all french and shit. In her head she was thinking that I was holding her pen like I was about to rub one out of it into my mouth. I sucked that shit in and exhaled it like a dragon. Which if you smoke, then you know is poor technique. So I started coughing loud as shit. My chest was feeling it too, i’m still of course playing it cool and sly, because that’s what I am, of course. “FUCK YOU SATAN” I yelled- it fit with the coughing “JESUS” “Sorry for that, I'm a bit of a zealot. Jesus too I guess.” ... “Well thanks for that I’ll be on my way. Busy day, busy life.” I walked away “Peace” she said. What is this world, who raised these kids? I didn’t even get her name, better yet who wrote this ‘story’? I never have that good a time when I’m high. Maybe I'm semi allergic because my chest always has a meltdown. My noggin will be feeling pretty nice and all but my chest will be squeezing itself to shit. So it only took me ten minutes to be feeling that little symptom. It got me thinking about shit and how I often want to lose my shit. I’m not referencing a hard fought battle with constipation against the belligerent bile. I mean lash out, do something crazy- now I want a drink too. I’m not saying that it's crazy, I just want one. The crazy part would be posting on instagram writing something vaguely suicidal, maybe extremely edgy. There’s one thing I find that I have in common with hitler, I want to die by blowing my own brain’s out with a gun. It’s not funny though, it’s a very lame joke. The only problem with lashing out, such as writing some possessed semi-platonic message to some girl referencing all the shit I deal with then regretting for months, is that I’ll still be alive most likely. Then I’m just embarrassed and alive, which isn’t positive. Fuck it. I’ll do it right now. I'm calling this girl that I’ve been talking to. To preface, I’m neither straight nor horny. Take that what thou wilt. As Shakespeare famously wrote. This girl's name is... well I don’t want to expose her so I’ll give her a fake name. Her name is going to be Sam. She’s beautiful, she’s an artist, she’s radiant, and I don’t think she’s normal, which is great. She has an amazing eye for aesthetic, she’s so fucking cool, I want to talk to her every fucking second and drive around listening to music all night with her. I think she’d understand me, I think she’d get me. Probability reason’s the opposite, so are my anxieties. What to do. Stay alone in my void or try to do something. Times are always ticking. It won't be next month, but next year if I’m still alive something will’ve changed dramatically in my life. I’m the most nihilistic fucker I know so the former is more believable. I’m starting to get angry. “Fuck.” I mumble Louder! Then again louder. I can’t do this. I can’t drop my baggage on this girl. What am I going to tell her, the truth? It doesn’t change it. My weight is my weight, It feels attached to me. Clay brick’s surgically inserted into me. All indicators point to say nothing. I can’t do it, I just can’t. She won’t get it. She won’t get my sickness or my depression or my torment or my misery. This world needs to be lonely, it needs to feel fickle and futile. It borders even family, it border’s everyone but me. There’s a permanent port of exit and entry. They keep everyone out there and wont let me step a toe outside those lines. It’s only a matter of time before I end it all, because I don’t think anyone will understand, and I don’t think it’ll make a difference. The only energy to motivate me otherwise is that of desperation, and it gets me right to that check point, before nihilism and dread and anxiety gush me over with the perfect amount of poison to keep me trapped for another day.