The Cooper Chronicles - Episode 2

I’m back and I ain’t doing anything until I tell you the rest of this fucking story. My promise is sacrosanct.

I’m fucking miserable again, so I thought, like, I’m feeling sorry for myself, I can do another twucking post on my life, ‘cause, as I said, I wanted to write about my problems before I step over the edge of the high building and my stomach splashes and transforms into a giant flat pizza. And the police use my guts instead of chalk to… you know, draw that line around my body on the ground. Although that would be rather wasteful, ‘cause I guess the splash will be of an irregular shape when I land on the sidewalk… and the radius is gonna be like ten feet at least. Or is it the perimeter? I dunno.

I mean, it’s gonna be awesome, like, awful, really, that, and I don’t wanna jump down and burst into pieces until I purge my mind. I wanna tell you my story so I don’t have to keep it in my head anymore. Then, perhaps, I’ll be ready to jump. So that’s that, that’s why I do this odd thing to you, dear readers.

So… yeah. I’m feeling kinda lonely and  I don’t feel like going on with life ‘cause I’ve thought about life and either 1) I seem unworthy of living it or 2) my life seems unworthy of me (which means I’m a sort of a genius and I can’t stand living in a world where my qualities are unappreciated. That sounds much cooler).

Then, I go to church and I read the Bible and I think, honestly, that God doesn’t want me to kill myself. That’d be disrespect towards the Omniscient: and that’s basically another thing that makes me rethink, like, Do I really have to do this? ‘Cause it’s, like, very wrong. Squalid. I ought not to even consider quitting my life.

So, it’s hard to decide, I hope you understand. Now, what’s harder, to throw oneself off a tower block or to believe in one’s importance in this world? Well well well. The first option is a bit more straightforward. But then comes Rilke (he was a wonderful guy, that Rilke) and he goes, That something is difficult must be one more reason for us to do it. So, being loyal to Rilke, I’d be abandoning one more philosophy there by killing myself…Yuck - so much fucking responsibility on you when you just wanna end all your troubles. Shote.

It all started with a weird, bad relationship. Hands up who thought so… anyone? But I won’t make it that easy for you. See, my heart is not the only part of me that’s  fucking broken and needs fixing - the flaw seems to be in my head. Like, there’s a little man planted into my brain that controls me like he was a drunk driver, when, you know, I really really don’t want him to - and I do something stupid, say something freaky, and - voila! - I’m proven one more degree of a freak!

‘Darling, could you hand me the Vanity Fair? I wanna look at some revealing pictures.’ (Ha! Judging from the naked pictures, you still cannot say whether I’m a guy or a girl, ‘cause… you know, since the Stonewall riots and Gay Pride marches and all, you should also consider the option that I’m… you know.) So… yeah. I’ve said many super-dumb things. Inappropriate stuff. Do I have to say them? Apparently.  ‘Honey, I’m going to the toilet to snort some cocaine.’ So… yeah… well… not that I said any of that really, of course, but… the point is: if I had, it wouldn’t matter ‘cos I already said so much bulshit I wouldn’t really care how much worse I was gonna get.

It’s sunny isn’t it? Almost sunny, if it weren’t for the clouds.

So, I guess I was kinda incompatible with my partner for that reason. Thoughts keep racing in my mind and I need meds in order to streamline what’s going on there. I can’t tell you how horrible I feel when I wake up.

Where am I?, I think. You’re lying in your bed, Monster, I say to myself. Good, I think. Beds are always gonna be around, so that’s safe. Never end a day without a bed. Beds were here centuries before me, so I better get used to them. But really, I mean, time travel, who buys into that junk? Astrologists do, probably, but they’re weird - they predict future and all - I mean, I wouldn’t want my future predicted, that would fuck up my life wouldn’t it? And then I prolly go, So, I’m in a bed, right? Which one of all the beds I know - oh, I love that painting! That’s my painting, ergo I assume this is my house and my bed, unless someone brought their bed to me and allowed me to sleep in it - holy mackerel, I can imagine how impolite I must have been asking for such things. I will find out at once, I say to myself. I should get up now, I think, and I sit on the bed and look at the bedside table. I mean, I honestly don’t know what I’m considering. Do I want to feed the table cookies to keep it full, so that all the stuff inside that I wanna keep ain’t go PUFF? Oh no, but there are my meds left there, actually. Only the two pills I need to take, not more of ‘em, ‘cause I could overdose myself that way. I cannot trust myself in that matter.

Anyway, I take the pills and drink the water in the glass, I swallow, and then, finally, start to realize why I took them in the first place. Before those pills, I was nothing more than a trained monkey with restricted access to the knowledge of who once was a smart college student. The wit - oh, my precious wit - I have to wake up that part of me with those pills. Unfortunately… it does not come back anymore, pills or no pills, soooooo… I’m getting worse and worse. And nutser and nutser. See?

Oh, I’m moaning and trying to make you feel sorry about me! Well, I cannot finish the story if I go on like that… I’m at my wit’s end. I’m here to do some storytelling, not to rant on about useless memories. From now on, I’ll do my best to talk in sentences. Second thoughts, I could even tell you more about myself. I only pray that the amount of detail won’t drive you away, my precious readers.

It all started on one dreary September day in 2009. I woke up and realized something was terribly wrong.

My story goes on. I’m outta jokes. Do await my next installment with the craziest expectations. ‘Cause I do. Now I have to take some of my wit powder.

Please stay with me.

Love and respect,

Jess Cooper

XXX
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NOTE: This letter is entirely a work of fiction.