I wrote this monologue in reaction to the economic crash in late 2008/early 2009. It seems appropriate to post again now.
I am at a dead end. Stumbling through chapter 10, heading like a missile into chapter 11. I am creatively bankrupt. I am intellectually bankrupt. I have not had an original thought, idea, or action in years. I’m not sure such a thing exists today. Originality is dead. Imagine a world where all the ground has already been broken and you are here. We, are here together. It’s all been done before. Everything is a cover. And since I do not understand what it means to “make it your own” I will never have a refreshing cover or remake.
In addition to my depleted creativity and nomadic intelligence, I am emotionally inept. I’ve heard that someone who possesses superior emotional intelligence is a person who is able to adapt to any situation. But that which is stuck cannot move, let alone adapt. My emotional intelligence is extinct. Snuffed out by paralysis.
My need is to acquire money, in any way I can, and at the expense of anyone, anytime, anywhere. I’d rather be mean, lonely, and rich than nice, lonely, and poor. After all, it is the root of all evil. And evil spelled backward is live. Seemingly, this attitude would make me morally and ethically bankrupt, except God wants me to be rich. Fuck the camel. The eye of my needle has stretch marks. Dear, dear God, sometimes, when I think of the absolute enormity, vastness, and emptiness of this universe you’ve created and my insignificance in it, I simply want to blow my fucking head off.
I am, at times, parentally bankrupt. A fraud who happens to show up for his child when needed. Nothing below. Nothing above. Nothing beyond. Standing at the register with an expired coupon for 20% off.
I have no convictions. Well, no convictions that can’t be moved. I can be swayed and influenced. Your opinion–of anything, even of me–however nutty or irrational, or perfectly rational for that matter, is all that I have, and are the only things that define my self view and self esteem.
I’m porous and penetrable. Which in turn makes me inherently and cleverly disloyal. But I promise I will never betray you. There is a difference between disloyalty and betrayal. I am one but not the other. You’ll see neither coming or going.
I am internally bankrupt. I have terrible eating habits. I smoke. I drink. I pop, snort, and slam. I will die young, if not sooner. The ink on my red dragon tattoo is fading into a peachy-pink. Ferocious no more. The skin wrinkling and cracking, the balding on top, the grays below, and the forestation on back leave me feeling externally bankrupt as well. I will not grow old with grace. I will crawl again. I will cower in the corner.
My all-time favorite expressions are: “At the end of the day”, “The fact of the matter is”, and “Think outside the box.” But the fact of the matter is at the end of the day I cannot think outside the box. I am the box. A perfect square. Filled with plastic explosives.
I have three seasons. All winter. I am a frosty, pitch-black asteroid spinning on a collision course that you must find a way to destroy for salvation, yours and mine. I am anthrax, napalm, DDT, and Goldman Sachs. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about me. Yet all I seek and live for is complete and total redemption and validation. Can you provide that? Will you diffuse me before I detonate? Are you up for the challenge?
