Bipolar disorder is God's snazziest practical joke. Lunatics like me are not psychopaths, our every thought is not dripping with bloody psychosis. I'm a regular guy with a kitten and family ties who hopes against the bleak future he predicts. I'm a novice writer and a shit job virtuoso.
If you hear some brokedick shoes clomp while a Zippo clicks and a crazy man laughs, you'll know I'm coming--for cheap wine, or a CiCi's job application. The pen name used for this blog is not a fantasy honorific. It is directly derived from the four name paragraph on my birth certificate. Enough about me, this is about the all-American psycho. I could be an engineer, an artist or a derelict. Maybe I'm the wholesome, pig-tail wearing girl next door: who plans to screw your virgin son and daughter while you're pretending at church and then burn your vanilla house down.
I grew up in a lowlife urban area and a prissy suburb. New money can rot in Hell but petty destruction is the same in any neighborhood. I began seeing mental health professionals in elementary school. I was such a special kid that I rode the short bus to class. I'll spare you the typical childhood bullshit and curb my rising gag reflex in the process. You wanna hear about the tribulations of a misunderstood child, go watch Oprah. A keen interest in vandalism and fire setting never fully grew out of me.
I do not own a laptop computer, nor would I be caught dead in a Starbucks. The candy ass trend sucking unshaven wannabe philosopher wearing horizontal stripes and Steve Madden shoes is not my cultural demographic. Put down the turbinado sugar, comb your hair in an adult fashion and step away from the paper chalice of pretentiousness. For $4, they should substitute Irish whiskey for frappy decaf organic Chai mango kava Burmese cactus essence. Fruit and its juices should burn in Virginia pipe tobaccos and splatter on private property. Waffle House is my hot spot of public brooding, where the coffee is real and cigarette smoke lingers like seasonal depression.
My favorite food is northern Italian, my favorite song is "Paint it, Black," my favorite painting is "Scream," emerald green is my favorite color. If I had a dream date, it would be with a hypomanic brunette sporting a tasteful suit and a big ass. Unless she vacuously inquires about my favorite color, in which case I'd be irritated to the point of spraying her blood on my chicken Albanese with a salad fork. I also have a penchant for dark humor; as well as dark nights, dark chocolate and dark clothing.
My wardrobe includes sport coats, suspenders, ivy dress hats and in excess of 65 paisley ties. I highly reccomend clothes shopping at thrift stores and only when surging with sweet mania. Smoking briar pipes in my street clothes does incite a twinge of self-consciousness. Such is the price of good taste and being the sharp dressed shit-shoveler with the sexy stoneface. I don't want to look different or hear pointless commentary. Think I look like Sherlock Holmes? Follow the pin stripes southbound and snack on my white ass.
Just because I have hanging glands doesn't mean that I watch sports--or anything on television for that matter. I do love movies, dark and comedic; Hannibal Lecter is my favorite psychiatrist.
I have been called many things. I resent "unique" and resemble "mother fuckin' psycho." Sometimes I say things that may induce a jaw drop, but it's been years since I put any value in shock. People ask if I'm an ex-Marine, although military recruiters shot my ass down over the sea of unemployment.
I often hate people for no valid reason. I've been known to hallucinate, but it's been alleged that I'm brilliant. I think about violence, but I'm a peaceful man: I haven't killed anybody in weeks. The thought voices in my head bitch so much that I talk to myself at bus stops. There's a sick look on my face sometimes, but I've got perfect eyebrows. Maybe I could use psychotherapy, but you need liposuction and a clue. If I put you off then stay the Hell away from me. Masturbatory self-glorification is an irresistable treat, but I laugh at my trivial existence as if it were footage of police brutality. I try to improve myself but I'm glad to be crazy.
People have told me I should be an actor, a comedian and a writer. Ultimately, I've got to follow my heart and stick to being a desperate cash register slave. Van Gogh sold only one work whereas I have violated dozens of food orders with extreme prejudice. Who's the alpha artist, now?