Bare Knuckles

I get excited a lot. I dive right into things and do them whole assed, as if they were the very things I was meant to do. But then I get bored. Once I’ve done it a little I want to do a new thing. I need a new love, a new fancy, anything else to pique my interest. I throw it away (insert apology to every ex-girlfriend here), but it’s not because I don’t like it anymore. It’s because I love it. A long time ago, perhaps in a dream, I decided that I don’t deserve happiness, so I actively seek the things that make me happiest, and cut them out of my life. I’m a psychopath. I torture my victim. I promise him escape and then take it away. I serve him a feast, and spit in it right before his eyes. I love my captor. I trust him. I’ll do anything he asks, even though I know he hates me beyond reckoning. I’m the venomous snake who slithers through a room full of mice, jubilant that he’ll never have to hunt again, right before he bites his own tail. I’m the most self destructive person I know.

I have a new motto that I’m really excited about. It goes; “Never get excited about anything because you know you’ll only let yourself down.” I’m really going to try to stick by this one, because it’s the only motto that has ever rung so true. I do that. I get excited about lots of shit, and I always quit. I don’t do all of my favorite things; read, write, play drums, watch/play soccer. My life is like a steeplechase, except that every obstacle is a mirror that punches me in the face and tells me it hates me, and I’m always in last place. It’s a bare knuckle bout against my shadow that I have no intention of winning. I’m just waiting for myself to tap out.