In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Plead the Fifth.”
WordPress.com has asked me to add my thoughts to an ever-growing, ever-expanding cauldron of oozing discontent and hatred. The witch’s brew has boiled over. I am inclined to share my thoughts, in my most cynical manner. The question set before me is this: What question do you hate being asked?
It is a simple question. And an honest one. It carries with it all the years of hard-hitting truths that have been heaved upon the human collective consciousness over the past three centuries like bricks upon the sandbags of our identities. Insecurities abound.
Yet the manner in which I approach my sectors of thought is not easy. The road to understanding is fraught with peril and woe. Distant memories… of a life long past, haunt my aching bones. Or, at least, I hope it’s long behind me. For I have yet to live through half the memories that I dare dream.
A decent enough segue.
I am horrified by the thought of having to prove myself to a world that does not understand me. For once in my life, I’d like to do the things I do for the desire that I have in my heart. Not for the cameras that constantly monitor me from the atmos. Not for the approvals of my father or mother or siblings. Not for the pissing contest of life, or to prove that my dick is indeed the longest in existence.
My penis is just fine the way that it is.
I am content with myself being a strange, manically obsessive indecisive and straight-forward person with absolutely nothing to prove to anyone. Perhaps it is due to my insanity that I do not need the praise, the spotlight, the popularity.
Human beings are like giant balls of ego. Their pride is a sickness that will drive them all into the ground. Not me. I was proud once. Until I met this girl. She pointed some things out to me. She broke my shell. I changed.
When I walk into a cafe to order a drink and I’m still dressed in my ACU’s, please don’t thank me for my fucking service. Please don’t ask me where I’ve been. Please don’t ask me what I’ve done. My answer to you is the same as when I answer everyone else: I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not you, I promise. It’s me.
It’s me, because I have become jaded and cynical. I have begun to think that everyone I meet is a threat to me or my way of life. Everyone dies eventually.
I eat popcorn and watch movies. I eat pizza and attempt to get a few more chapters of my novel done. I call up my contacts in Whitehall and ask them to fill me in. They tell me to fuck off. This is my life.
I can’t imagine where it was that I flipped the rails. Where it was that my train came to a screeching halt and why I’m no longer working from a computer at my university, but from a computer… that I’ve never seen before.
So… Don’t ask me anything when you see me.
I’ve got nothing to show for it, anyways. I’m a failure. A miserable failure who masquerades himself as a death-dealer. In fact, I’m not even sure what I’m good at right now. So, the three words that you should always avoid when it comes to polite conversation with me.
“Have you ever…?”
Because my answer will always be the same.
“No. Fuck off.”