aumsworld

Sinner

I’m depressed.

I went shopping today. Well, I came along as my family went shopping. I sat in the car and rocked to Led Zeppelin as they picked the groceries. I looked out the window. I noticed a guy whom I’d been digging since a certain time - not a crush, not a crush at all, but digging. He was cute. He sat on a bench outside the grocery store and smoked a cigarette. A girl walked by. Mind, a girl I already knew, from school; a crude, vulgar little bitch, who dresses as if she were sexy while she so obviously isn’t. The guy got up to greet her. He gave her a cigarette. They began talking. She took his hand. He kissed her. Fuck the world.

What’s wrong with me? Why doesn’t anyone give a damn about me? Why? I’m ten times cuter than that little slut. Okay, so I can talk, I dress like a whore too, but at least I look GOOD like that. She doesn’t. Is it the personality? What, should I start walking around slapping guys’ asses, making toilet jokes, and braying like a constipated donkey, just like that girl? Would that make me any more attractive? Is that it? Or is it the intelligence? She’s a rocket scientist, and I’m not, right? Right. Oh, and why do I bother wondering, anyway. All the guys I dig end up pairing up with fat, vulgar, and mentally retarded bitches. It’s not the first time this happens, and it’s not the last, either.

My parents won’t give me anymore driving lessons. It’s dangerous. They don’t have the time, anyway. My dad’s too busy playing online solitaire. My mom’s reading her cookbook. Now THAT’S important; the household will automatically self-destruct if she doesn’t find a healthy, vegetarian recipe to cook for tonight’s supper.

My father says “I love you” as if it were a joke, but somehow I don’t think it’s funny.

I say “prove it.”

He doesn’t feel like it. He’s almost won his game of solitaire, but the bitchy computer won’t give him a two of hearts. I say, “Fuck the two of hearts.” I go in my room and sleep all day long. I take a shaver and I poke at my wrists. I shave my privates to look like a heart, and then I make little red crosses over my arms. Now that’s what I call body art.

I take a walk at ten o’clock at night. Some guys catcall me. Hey babe, shake that stuff, won’t you, and come over here. I give them my finger and my pink little tongue. I have an unusual tongue, long and pointy, sort of like a snake’s, or like the tongue of demons in medieval illustrations. They’re upset and they leave. Too bad. I almost wish sometimes they’d carry their intentions out. Give me love, impure though it may be. I miss my incubus.

I don’t dream anymore. Well, a little, but not much. Just silly, meaningless dreams. A magic bunny wearing tuxedo jumps out of an overgrown top hat, which grows into a tree. What’s the point of that, you ask? I have no idea. My love came the other day, but he was crying; he’s not in love with me anymore, his other crush or whatever gave him the brush-off and bruised him pretty bad, physically I mean, she gave him a beating. I’m his best friend, I have to listen to everything he tells me, I’m so nice, I can help him right? He thinks I’m his Cupid; I can make anyone fall in love with him if I want to, even his girlfriend. Well, maybe, but Cupids have feelings too. Fuck him. Oh, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I love him, I really do. I just wish he’d love me too. Even my dream guys are turning their backs on me now. Usually, when I’m depressed, I sleep and they come cheer me up, but not anymore. I’m an insomniac. I don’t feel like sleeping anymore, and I don’t.

I’m such a sinner. I spend an hour looking at myself in the mirror, every morning. I’m not sure whether I look good or not, and I’m not sure why I care, anyway, but it’s important. I just have to look good. My lips are nice, and my eyes, too; they’re very intense, compelling. My skin is breaking out, though. After two months of smooth peaches and cream, I should expect that. No pimples, but blotches, which are hardly prettier. Cold weather does that to me. I’m depressed. I need to be pretty to feel good. I’m not pretty. I don’t feel good.

I asked for money, to buy myself new clothes, at Christmas. My parents bought me a ceramic angel. I saw the same ceramic angel at WalMart the next day, on sale for ten dollars. My parents gave me a ten dollars ceramic angel for Christmas. That’s all. Ten dollars. I’m worth ten dollars to them, right? It doesn’t matter that all my clothes are wearing thin, right? I’m such a slut anyway, I can go to school naked and no one will care. I have to purchase my own clothes, and obviously they’re not willing to give me much of a financial help. They’re such good parents anyway. They don’t need to buy me clothes when I need them in order to prove it.

Oh, I’m evil, I’m so evil.

When I was in grade 9 I went to a private school for Christian children. I had a roommate, whose name was… Let’s be oh-so-original and call her Sarah. Deal. I had a roommate named Sarah. During a while, we were best friends. You see, I had no other friends, well, not a great very many anyway, because I was ugly and smart and a little bigot. I hated the Spice Girls because they dressed like sluts. I wore plaid skirts and knee socks and blouses and sweaters of a most disgraceful sort. The guys thought I was a riot. The girls, not so. They avoided me. Well, anyway, Sarah liked me because I was ECCENTRIC. In a bad sort of way, in an unoriginal sort of way, but eccentric all the same. Not like everyone else. And I liked to read, and I didn’t make fun of her the way the prep kids did. And, I mean, I was snobbish, but I was NICE. So she liked me. We moved in together. She had a room neighbour too, called… A really unusual name, but let’s name her Toni. Before I came in, Toni and Sarah were best friends. When I came in, of course, I messed up their relationship a little, and Toni hated me. She pretended she didn’t, though. She said I was cute. I think she meant it; I really was cute, in a plain and dislikeable sort of way. She told me once I’d be really pretty when I grew up. I didn’t care then, but I believed her. She was right, I think; I’m sort of pretty now, well, sometimes, when my skin doesn’t go all blotchy because of the weather. But anyway. She didn’t like me, but she pretended she did. Sarah had another friend too, who was a lesbian; she slept with Toni and touched her ass when she was asleep, and she liked to burst in and scare me when I was in the shower. She hated me, and I hated her. Her name was Sarah too, so everyone called her Sarah K and called the other Sarah, my roommate, Sarah S. Neither Sarah K nor Toni liked me, but they dealt with me because I was Sarah S’s friend, and they loved Sarah S. They thought I was evil, though. Once, I invited Toni and Sarah S. to my home for the holidays, because they had nowhere to go, and Toni argued with my father. Well, she hated me even more after that. And then, she and Sarah S. got in trouble for shoplifting. I, surprisingly enough, didn’t reproach it to them, but they might have felt I did. Well, Sarah S and I stopped being friends. No reasons; I was just so evil I made a terrible friend, and I was tired of her messing up my room and nagging at my clothes and getting me in trouble for not playing by the rules, and I guess we developed different interests and just broke apart. So I moved in with Toni. We ignored Sarah S. We got along well; Toni’s the one who got me into mainstream rap, and she’s one of the only reasons I don’t hate Eminem today (there’s another, but let’s not go there.) We moved in together and ignored Sarah S., to the point that Sarah S. found herself all alone, without friends, and hating both of us; and then, just as she was getting suicidal, Toni dropped me as if I’d never existed, moved over with Sarah S., and told her it was all my fault, I was so evil; I was the one who’d plotted their lost friendships, I was the one to blame if Sarah S. had felt so lonely and depressed during such a long time. I was so, so evil. So they moved in together, and began ignoring ME; it was my fault, for being evil. But then Toni told me afterwards that she’d never liked me… And that when she’d moved in with me and pretended to be friends, she’d been only PRETENDING, that it had been a way to get back to being Sarah S‘s best friend, and that it had worked. And Sarah S. told me that she forgave me for all the wrongs I’d done her, but only out of her pure goodness of heart, and that she never wanted to speak another word to me again, for fear of my wicked, wicked tongue. I’m so, so evil, the worst friend in the world; I never want to have friends again.

Fuck me, fuck me. That’s why the guy at the grocery store didn’t look at me and preferred his little bitch instead. She’s ugly, but she isn’t evil, not at all; I AM. I’m pretty on the outside, prettier than then, but inside I’m so wicked and corrupted and rotten, and that’s even consuming my outside, which may be why my skin is so blotchy right now, as well.

No one cares. No one does. I don’t remember the last time someone touched me, in a friendly sort of way. A hug. I don’t remember. Even my family doesn’t like me. They’re glad I’m moving out soon; my father said so, not meanly, but he meant it all the same. I’m getting up at night to write and drink red wine. I write very twisted stuff; some of it is so twisted I don’t want to show it to anyone, not yet. I don’t have much of anyone to show it to, anyway. I’d kill myself, but I guess there’s hope left in me, because I don’t. Oh, and I don’t want to go to Hell. Not yet. I know if I die now I will, and I don’t want to; I want to improve. Even rotten people can do that. I wish my life was like that of the villains in the movies; they feel love, and it changes them into good people that can love back, too. If I felt love, maybe I would stop being so evil. Someone love me, please. Dammit. Of course you can’t; you’re words on a screen. Why am I writing this, anyway? Is this like the suicide notes people write before they kill themselves? I’m not going to kill myself. I guess I’m just writing something I know will embarrass me later, for the hell of it.

Bye bye everyone. Aum’s out.

- Aum

(Aum's note, two months later: I'm not feeling that way anymore!!! Sorry for the angst. No, I'm not suiciding.)

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