Hot Garbage

Man, sometimes; scratch that, a LOT of times I just want to give up. I read your stories and then read mine; garbage. I see your pictures and then I see mine; garbage. I see your art and then glance at mine *gags*. And these are the things I think I’m good at, f**k some days I even let myself think I’m great at. Well whatever, what has art ever done for me anyways?

Oh yea. It’s the only thing I was good at in high school. Didn’t play sports, couldn’t remember any dates in history, skated through math, never joined any clubs. Art was the only thing that gave me any kind of recognition as anybody.

My senior year was the best. I had four out of seven class periods in the art room. Almost all back-to-back too. Although, I’m not sure if it was the arting that kept sane or the constant flow of music in my over-sized headphones, drowning out all the b****y things people were probably saying about me.

I remember one time, I chose to express myself, my colorful side. I wore a blue and white stripped shirt with BRIGHT red pants.

“Wow, I didn’t know today was the fourth of July.” F**k that b***h. Ten years ago and I still can’t get her whiny insult out of my head. Or maybe it’s the way it made me feel that I can’t get out of my heart. What does it matter anyway? The point is, it hurt then, and it hurts now. Now I mostly only wear black. Black pants with a colored top maybe; if it’s a good day. And not even because I’m goth or emo or whatever the kids say these days. Simply because I know it will always match. Always make a cohesive outfit not too unusual or offensive to someone’s eyes.

Why do people have to be so mean? Maybe that’s what taught me to be so mean to myself. Or maybe that was learned through years of self-destructive disrespect. Dished out by me, to me. Why did I ever let myself go like that? Why was it so goddamn hard to just be myself? I could blame it on my mom, my friends, the men that used me like paper napkin. Sometimes I wish I could be one of those. Always blaming someone else so that maybe I wouldn’t have more artillery for my arsenal of self-hatred. Instead, I spend hours thinking of how I could have made better choices, been a better person, stood up for my beliefs sooner. Oh well, I guess I’m a good person or some positive shit like that.

Wait, wasn’t I talking about something else? What was it?

Oh yea, art. Yours, the f**king Sistine Chapel, Mozart’s 17th concerto, Starry Night. Mine, lucky if some homeless person finds it in the trash and uses it to burn for warmth. Why do I even try anymore? I suppose it’s because it gives me a release. It calms the swirling vortex of thoughts usually muddling my brain in a maddening way. -- Did you switch the laundry? What are you going to make for dinner? I hope Stuart is having a good day at school. Remember that one time in middle school when those sixth graders called you gross for having “big boobs”? – When I create art it all stops and a graceful flow of colors and music pirouette through my mind. When I write I’m lifted away to a new planet, a new dimension, sh*t sometimes even a whole new body. And I suppose I do love the release. Expressing all the thoughts and emotions onto paper or canvas, posting it online and pretending people relate or maybe even care. I guess even if they don’t, I can always pretend. My imagination seems to be the only thing I have going for me anyways.