Skip to main content

Freudian Hypochondriac

I made a huge mistake today.

I decided to look into my daddy issues.

Well it all makes sense. I'm not going to go into it, because come on... that's just weird for me to post online.  But I get it- the man-eating, the shallow analysis of casual sex, the erotic self-portraits. It's all come together now- an absurdly simple and concise cliche.

I WILL tell you that there was no abuse and my childhood was devoid of trauma ( save from relocating to different places- but adaptation is a skill. )

But there is no bigger way to make yourself feel terrible than looking into your deep-seated relationship issues. When you have a sore throat, you look it up. You end up thinking you've got a tumor. I do. Most people do. And if you don't... you probably have a tumor.

Well, being a hypochondriac is fine, I mean it isn't, but it's not that bad if you're looking at physical symptoms. You can go to the doctor- he'll fix you up. Give you an antibiotic. Saw off the tumor.

But being a mental hypochondriac, a hypochondriac of the delicate human psyche, is like tap dancing in a minefield. A shrink doesn't just fix your mind up. A shrink dissects it. And dissecting a live and invisible thing takes time. Your mind is already apt to spite itself. Certain minds, marred with the scars of cynicism and worthlessness, will jump to terrible and insane conclusions, overindulging their pity with a damning diagnoses.

I suppose over-confident minds will ignore their glaring histrionic narcissism because they are incapable of harnessing the unpleasant energy necessary for introspection. It takes a lot of energy to be an asshole but it takes more energy to deal with them.

Anyway- I don't think neurotic people are benefiting from search engines.

My father took a lot of business trips-

I am certainly going to die a lonely whore, warm in a pile of sleeping cat fur.

Till then-

You're all filthy meat,

It disgusts and thrills me when you cum.


Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster


I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.

my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries

May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…