Stupid, dammit, maybe

And so it has come to pass that with great trepidation and very little effort I've gone and made things really weird between us and there's more or less absolutely nothing to be done about it now. I'm afraid that certain stupidities simply do not qualify for an offer of salvation. This sin is unforgivable. No pardon or clemency to be had even if begging were an option which it's not. Therapy won't set this record straight, whiskey ain't fixing nothing neither, no amount of whiteout can cover up these typos and CTRL+Z does F all about the situation. Hello there. I am awkwardness incarnate, it's nice to meet you, and just FYI from this point forward I will be avoiding eye contact and barely acknowledging your presence because back when they were handing out balls I thought they said dolls so I said no thanks I'm a big boy and I won't be needing any of those girly toys. I play with fire, not fake babies, so hit me up when you're handing out the matches and the gas and I'll take as much as you'll let me have because how else am I gonna get started on burning this here perfectly good bridge which very likely leads to friendship, opportunity, and happiness on yonder side? Aye, turn the torches upon it now. Burn motherfucker burn. Wow would you just look at that thing go. What an inferno. What a glorious blaze. How beautiful the sight of something priceless alight and I feel a little bit strange inside. Suddenly something isn't quite right. Hang on. What's that I see standing over there through all the smoke and flames. Who is that. Wait. Wait wait wait. How do I undo this stupid thing I've done. CTRL+Z. Crap. CTRL+Z. Dammit.

Writing seems nigh impossible these days. I don't feel like I have anything worth saying but I still try to find something to say and then after several rounds of writing, rewriting, editing, deleting, and emptying yet another beer what I finally end up saying is nothing at all. On the rare occasion that I do arrive at the point of hitting publish I wake up the next day and hate what I've created. Trash that I tossed on the blockchain to live forever instead of throwing in the bin where it belonged. I turn 40 next month so maybe this is my midlife crisis. I could probably crank out several pages of dialogue where it's just me and a crazier version of myself having a long melodramatic conversation about how it all feels so empty and pointless and yet somehow the emptiness is also filled to the brim—nay, 'tis overflowing!—with unbearable pain and suffering. That sounds like a pretty stupid idea, though.

FADE IN. A bare, dimly lit room furnished with a table and two chairs. Identical twins ME and OTHER ME are seated across from each other. A half-empty whiskey bottle stands between them.

Woe is me! For it all feels so empty and pointless—

OTHER ME

So kill yourself.

—and yet somehow the emptiness is also filled to the brim—nay, 'tis overflowing!—

OTHER ME

Again, might I suggest suicide.

—with unbearable pain and suffering.

OTHER ME

Stop ignoring me. Your pistol is in the bedroom.

Hark! What be this voice I hear so very faintly picking its way through the deafening silence that engulfs my soul? Who goes there in my troubled mind, what unwelcome entity trespasses across the endless devastation where all my hopes and dreams once flourished—hopes and dreams which withered away into dust so many long decades ago that I can scarcely call up their memories in my desperately aching head?

OTHER ME

You know I hate it when you do this you fucking tool.

How dare you insult me while I'm waxing poetic.

OTHER ME

You're a fucking tool. Nobody wants to listen to your melodramatic ranting or read the garbage you call creative writing.

That's it. I swear to god I'm going to kill you.

OTHER ME

Do it. Please.

But not today.

OTHER ME

Tomorrow?

Let's at least wait till we turn 40.

OTHER ME

That's reasonable. I think I can handle another month of this.

Behold! All things under the sun are but ashes and dust!

OTHER ME

And, now I just changed my mind.

What purpose is there to this life we've been given without any choice of existence? What meaning can be found in living when naught but dying weighs so heavily upon the mind? At first blush I suspect there is neither meaning nor purpose to any of it at all, but if that is in fact true, then why be there this quiet thing alive somewhere deep inside me, telling me to persevere, to push forward, to pick up the pieces and put them back together every time I hit what I think is rock bottom only to break through and find yet another rock bottom waiting to embrace me beneath? Could it be that perhaps the struggle itself, and especially the daily facing and overcoming of it, is the very thing that gives life some modicum of meaning?

OTHER ME

Oh my god. If you're not gonna do it then I'll pull the fucking trigger myself.

But we still have so many bridges to burn and opportunities to squander.

OTHER ME

True.

Also I field-stripped the CZ and threw all the ammo in the trash while you were sleeping.

OTHER ME

What?

You heard me you fucking tool.

OTHER ME

Asshole. I could stil pistol-whip you to death if I wanted to.

You don't got the balls for that.