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Is This Insanity?

Novel By: UN Owen
Other



A man with no direction in life and a secret longing for death, Noel Lynch describes his feelings of utter inadequacy and dissatisfaction with everything as he recounts the most memorable moments of his short and lonely existence. A deconstruction and satire of depression-filled coming-of-age stories, it also acts as a true and honest look into the mind of an anxious, depressed young man who blames others for his own misery View table of contents...


Chapters:

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

Submitted:Feb 26, 2013    Reads: 2    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


Women. Why don't we get on the subject of women? As much as it pains me to say this, I do not have the greatest track record with members of the female race. As a socially awkward young man in high school, I tried distancing myself from as much human contact as I could, only answering certain questions in class and quietly sitting in the back of the room reading abstract books about suicide. Honestly, I'm surprised nobody bothered to alert the guidance counselor to my strange behavior. I had all the qualities of a boy ready to commit mass murder and shoot down several of his classmates. To be completely honest with you, reader, I had thoughts about it on several occasions. Many a time I would sit in the classroom, listening to the atrocious ramblings of the whorish young women bragging about their perverse, sexual exploits. Or sometimes I would overhear muscle bound jock speaking about all of the girls they had poured their loads into or all the drugs they had taken or even all the alcohol they had consumed. And I began to think, "Do these filthy fucking wastes of life deserve to live? Why are innocent people starving in third-world countries while these entitled pricks get everything handed to them, all the while doing nothing to deserve their possessions? The pure fact that they speak of the girls they've slept with as commodities is truly disgusting." Perhaps that is why I did not have girls fawning all over me as these perverts did. It couldn't possibly be my unappealing personality, or my unattractive face. No, it must be that girls want to be treated like livestock, and I am simply giving them too much credit.

I did always like girls. I always thought of them when I was alone in my bedroom, or when I was in the bath. Girls made me feel happy, even if they also made me feel angry. That's not to say I didn't speak to any girls throughout my high school days, on the contrary I had a variety of female friends. But anytime I thought of pursuing a sexual relationship with them, my anxieties became worse and I broke down. Once, I broke down in the class before a test I had forgotten to study for. Everyone looked at me as I told them that I had forgotten, and feeling their glaring eyes penetrating me caused me to collapse onto my hands and knees. I began to dry heave, and I before I knew it I was convulsing on the floor as if I were an epileptic suffering from a seizure after watching an episode of Pokémon. Spit flew out of my mouth; I lost control of my body. I twitched and writhed and I couldn't breathe. It didn't last long though, and I regained control of my body eventually. I cried myself to sleep that night. I thought about how embarrassing it was to explode like that in front of all these judgmental teenagers, uncaring and disinterested in one another. They didn't care that I had a problem, they only cared that it was fucking hilarious. To them it was free entertainment, seeing me in pain like that. That was the day I wanted to murder them all, viciously tear them to shreds with a military grade machine gun. Unfortunately, due to the tragic deaths of twenty elementary school children, acquiring guns became difficult, and sneaking them into schools became even harder.

Talking about my teenage years brings me to a rather related topic. Drugs. Drugs are the defining factor of being young, apparently. Personally, I had not become a huge drug fanatic until recent years, when I began seeing vivid images of myself defecating acidic liquids and experienced thoughts of cutting unique patterns into my flesh. As a high school kid, all I heard about was people getting high or other students getting wasted after chugging more than four cans of Miller Lite. I got drunk once, I think, between the ages of fourteen and sixteen. I was lonely one night, without a friend to speak of or anybody to confide in. Nobody seemed to want to concern themselves with me, so I secluded myself in the garage of my late grandparents' house. You see, my grandmother had died just a few days prior, and her house was now empty, which made it a perfect place for me to cry, as nobody had to be troubled by my lonely wailing. Before leaving, I snuck into my father's small mini-refrigerator that he keeps in the basement and stole a handful of Guinness, some Irish beer. Then, remembering the password to my grandmother's garage, I snuck in there without anybody seeing me and wallowed in self-pity. I longed for somebody to consult with, somebody real. I knew that telling my family members of my increasing dissatisfaction with life would result in me being sent to therapy, and perhaps being institutionalized for mania, which was something I absolutely refused. So, I simply talked to myself, thinking of the things that I loved (not much) and singing of songs I enjoyed. I chugged several beers down as if they were water, and soon I began to feel the inebriation taking hold. It felt surprisingly liberating, as if I was no longer within my own body. It was not at all unpleasant, and I began to see why adults hid their sorrows in alcohol. I began tripping and hiccupping, trying to make the most out of my lonely existence. I realized something, as I began falling over, unable to contain all of that beer. I realized that I was alone in the world. There was nothing keeping me here. Nobody wanted me, and all I did was cause problems for people. At school, anybody whom I considered a friend didn't care about my well being and probably thought of me as a third-wheel. At home, my father did little to reach out to me and express his love or act as a father should. My brothers had left the house and were off to college to do something productive. And that's when it hit me. I will never do anything worth anybody's time. I will never be what I want to be. I can never be happy, because being happy is not what it means to be human. And being human is not what it means to be happy. As human beings, we are inherently depressed. We were not born to be comfortable, or to be happy. We were born to be miserable and slug through our meaningless lives, praying to our non-existent, fictional deities, hoping it will get better. And sometimes, maybe things will get better, and we'll start to believe that life can go on. But then, you realize that life really isn't worth anything. That you aren't worth anything. And you want to go away forever. You wish to make yourself disappear in the quickest, least painful way imaginable.

At the end of my high school life, I began to see things. And I began crying obscenely. I still can't stop. I begin to think for a moment how utterly worthless my life is, how absolutely nobody cares about me. I think of all the people talking about me behind my back, and I can't control it anymore. I think I'm going insane. Why is this happening to me? You want to know the funny part? Not all of this is true. Most of the things I've said in this little essay, dear reader, are completely fictional. I would like you to try and find these falsehoods and pick them out for yourself. Then I'd like you to mock me behind my back and laugh as others have done, as others still do. I'm used to it by now. Really. I am. I want to cry and die and lie down. But, I can't. I need to share with everybody how I feel. At the end of my high school life, I began sporadically crying and twitching. I slowly lost control of my body movements and I would smile even when the situation didn't call for smiling. One minute, I would be happy, hugging my fellow classmates and cheering them on. Then, the next minute, I'm angry and sad and lonely. I want somebody to talk to; I want a relationship that isn't so obviously fabricated. However, nobody cares about what I want. God doesn't care, the President of the United States doesn't care, the people around me don't care, and you don't care. Hell, I'm not even sure if I care anymore. As I continue writing this, reader, I begin to want to stop more and more. It becomes increasingly difficult to write coherent sentences, and my concise style of storytelling seems lost to me now. But I will press on and persevere. Women. Why don't we get on the subject of women? As much as it pains me to say this, I do not have the greatest track record with members of the female race. As a socially awkward young man in high school, I tried distancing myself from as much human contact as I could, only answering certain questions in class and quietly sitting in the back of the room reading abstract books about suicide. Honestly, I'm surprised nobody bothered to alert the guidance counselor to my strange behavior. I had all the qualities of a boy ready to commit mass murder and shoot down several of his classmates. To be completely honest with you, reader, I had thoughts about it on several occasions. Many a time I would sit in the classroom, listening to the atrocious ramblings of the whorish young women bragging about their perverse, sexual exploits. Or sometimes I would overhear muscle bound jock speaking about all of the girls they had poured their loads into or all the drugs they had taken or even all the alcohol they had consumed. And I began to think, "Do these filthy fucking wastes of life deserve to live? Why are innocent people starving in third-world countries while these entitled pricks get everything handed to them, all the while doing nothing to deserve their possessions? The pure fact that they speak of the girls they've slept with as commodities is truly disgusting." Perhaps that is why I did not have girls fawning all over me as these perverts did. It couldn't possibly be my unappealing personality, or my unattractive face. No, it must be that girls want to be treated like livestock, and I am simply giving them too much credit.





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