I’m incredibly tired this evening. I ran out of soy milk (unsweetened), which is what I use in the place of dairy creamer these days. It is the only sugar-free dairy-free “creamer” I can get my hands on. The idea of being sugar free with a dairy allergy seems to be a niche market nobody gives a shit about. [Thus, she delegates one more time, unheard.]
I needed a spot of gas for the adventure of going to market, so I stopped by a gas mart. Lo and behold, the man at the pump ahead of mine needs a Valentine, so he spoke to me. He told me he really liked my hair, and not just the blue part but the way it was cut also. I thanked him, of course, uncomfortable being hit on in the freezing cold by someone I’d never seen before, especially since I only meant to put a little spray of that foul engine fuel in my tank. (I need an E.V.) I’ve been procrastinating going to Sam’s Club, which is routinely 30 cents cheaper per gallon. Not to mention it puts cash back on my card for use as in-store credit, literally paying for my membership. I have a 2015 Cruze, so it’s not like it’s a gas guzzler, either.
That is to say: get a Sam’s membership & it’ll pay for itself as long as you eat food and buy gas.
Anyway, I went to Wegmans a second time, musing about how this is the first time I’ve been hit on in this city. I looked at my attire and I noticed something small that was different than my usual day-to-day look… I had put my socks on over my skinny jeans instead of the other way around. Now, I don’t know if this has any bearing on whether or not that’s why I was called beautiful with a banging body — by the way, those of you who bitch about getting hit on, STFU if the dude is standing more than six feet away — but I wondered anyway. I’d already been out in exactly the same getup hours before for my veggie shopping trip. I should start making a list of what I need and go to the market less frequently, I know that. And I probably should go to the other Wegmans or just go to Sam’s for my produce. I think Wegmans is like one point fresher on a ten point scale, however.
Anyway, I am bewildered. That guy took me in for, say, three seconds before he started to tell me he thinks I’m pretty. Dude in the grocery store makes direct eye contact for months. Something tells me I should just give up on the latter one. I’m okay with that, but Ed, Edd, and Eddie in my head want me to date that guy so badly! I have no idea why. What could they possibly know about the dude? All it does is remind me of the guy I proposed to — thanks to the same three assholes in my head — in early 2021. Nick did the equivalent of the dead-eyed stare from across the room. For years, I contemplated that almost-effort, and decided I liked the cad… but I’ve been given therapy and I’m better now.
I don’t actually know if it’s a dead-eyed stare. It’s hard to tell when there’s a baseball cap shading one’s eyes.
The reason I started watching said dude in grocery store is he gave me a compliment in April last year. It was, apparently, meaningless, in the end. He passed me in the bread aisle when he delivered it and then there was radio static and staring that seemed like a limp noodle, if we want to talk about cooking spaghetti. It definitely didn’t stick to the wall.
(Who throws their spaghetti at the wall to see if it’s done, anyway?)
So, what’s a girl to do? I have this impulse to break out my war paint (makeup), my nail polish, a stunning date outfit, and take myself out to the movies. I probably won’t do that part since butter is an ingredient for popcorn and I cannot even be in the same room as dairy, but I can dream. I can dream of a dairy-free theater. Maybe I’ll open one. Since nobody wants me to delegate.
In fact, yeah. Sure. Tonight I’ll paint my nails. I’m pretty pissed, though, as I recall giving away my favorite nail polish to Goodwill thanks to the peanut gallery in my fucking head, telling me that it’s mere vanity and I should be above vanity altogether, pretending it’s God Herself talking me into giving up all the little things. I wish I could stab each and every voice that makes me do shit I regret right between the eyes. I’m working on it. I’ll update you when I know it actually does the deed.
In other news, one of them gave up on trying to give me advice on how to “get the guy.” It was so awkwardly silent after he admitted he didn’t know what he was doing. Took him long enough. BENJAMIN ANDREW CARTER, GET YOUR OWN DUDE. Also fuck you ten times over. I don’t ever want to hear from you again, telepathically or otherwise. You already know that, but you don’t leave anyway. I will hurt you one day. That is, if God’s plan doesn’t take you out first. He told me all about it earlier this week.
I already told you seven years ago how it was going to happen, so now all I have to say is: I told you so.
Oh wait, I have one more thing to say to you: you have a listening problem.
In other, other news, I’ve been wondering about the original Sir Deli Man. The one with eyes like fresh brewed coffee, so dark and glittering. Always glittering. God says he’s dairy-free himself, so that gives me a spot of hope. I am seeing my mom improve ten fold overnight, basically, from the removal of dairy… but I feel like my ass is dragging lately. I have no idea how she’s got more energy than I do, since I’m the one dictating who eats what and we eat the same damn thing… except, occasionally, I’ll skip a meal and she’ll binge eat carrots or the like. I suppose it could be that. Binge-eating.
It’s hard to want to eat. I don’t even want to be alive. But then I remind myself that maybe she doesn’t have more energy… I go up and down the stairs five or six times a day, I do all the laundry, I do the dishes, and I do all the cooking, which is from scratch, I clean the bathroom and the kitchen. Absolutely everything we eat is made from scratch and that takes a considerable effort some of the time. Took me four days to make a proper soup from the bones of the chickens I bought from the Wegmans deli for the funeral. All she does is get up for 30 minutes a day to paw through things to try to de-clutter, starting with her room. I’ve been taking it all upstairs to where I dwell separately, cluttering up my own apartment whilst this happens. I don’t know if I’m going to give a massive donation to Goodwill or if I’m going to try to sell any of it. I don’t want to do anything at all with it just yet, but that’s also thanks to the peanut gallery in my head.
It’s tiresome, to hear from multiple sources of snide, snarky, mean-spirited, jerk-faced losers all day every day. “Sansara, do this,” they croon, trying to make me do shit like stab myself with a fork. I actually did that, though it has a lot to do with the fact that they end their psycho show once the self-harm is done. That’s been their M.O. for over a year: how far can we push the messiah before she hits the fuck it button and reality disappears forever? I can’t believe I’ve only been hearing all these fuckwads for just shy of two years now. I can’t even remember what being sane is like. Well, I should say I can’t remember what solitude is like. I’m still sane, just at the end of my rope in perpetuity.
God assures me that all of reality will be destroyed if I die prematurely because all life on Earth will be gone. He’ll just start a new project, he supposes. You better bet he’ll never let anything have free will again. I’m sad because I know this experiment always ends this exact same way. It’s done it thirty times over now. This time is unlikely to be the last, but one could hope.
I remember when I first moved in with my parents, I banged my head so hard against the door frame that my neck injury partially corrected itself. I remember smashing myself in the head with my fists, beating myself up again and again… it’s the only way to make them all cease. Which tells me it’s not schizophrenia, because those voices don’t give a shit if you’re at your limit or not. Thankfully, God never let me stab myself in the eye with a knife.
The worst part is that nobody fucking believes me.
Fuck all of you for being in my head, making me even more miserable. There’s a short list of women who don’t deserve that sentiment, I know that… Julie, Lynda, Erin. Although, seriously, Julie… you tried to throw me at some body builder, I swear. Or was he thinking about me just a little? Who knows? I don’t. I never will.
Cute, they all are, but it doesn’t matter. Women bitch about being hit on all the time and I’ve discovered how to avoid it: you dress like a fucking bum and you don’t wear makeup. My bestie, Alex, told me once that he is RAWR even when his wife is in sweat pants, and I know that’s the kind of guy I need, so I’m not playing this dress up game for the boys. However, I might do it just to prove to myself that I’ve still got it. It’s been years, after all.
And why? Illness. Not even mental illness, you judgmental twat. Nay, the boys in my head want me to neglect my actual well-being to paint my nails and my face, just so they can turn around and tell me that I’m a whore. (Or is that random passers-by that judge me? Who can tell; I’m blind as of yet… but when I’m no longer blind, you will all pay accordingly.) They love calling me a bitch, too, but these days it seems more like a compliment since they use it to indicate that I’m being more difficult than completely complacent.
I’ve got a new vindictive streak about a mile wide and a mile long, it would seem. I guess I’m just tired of this song and dance. I’m not here to be your toy, child. I’m not here to entertain you. I’m not here to be posed for photographs, plastering on a smile that is only 1% genuine. I’m not smiling because life sucks and then you die.
I used to smile all the time. I used to have bright colored hair all the time. You know what those two things mean as you starve to death on accident? That everything is okay. It’s not okay. Everything is fucked up. I was fine before I went on that weight-loss stint. And why? Why did I need to do it? I didn’t. I was happy enough being fat. I had marvelous clothes that made me feel sexy, they all fit great (thank you, Torrid), and I had some pretty strappy bras and everything. I was fine. I felt beautiful and comfortable, which is not the usual, as some women might know. Especially since Torrid carries wide calf knee boots. (Ladies, I’m tellin’ ya… get to Torrid. Size 10 thru 30 or something like that.)
It’s because this asshole I worked with years ago did exactly the same thing they all do: he flirted with me for months and months, but just barely, because he already had a beautiful girlfriend. A beautiful anorexic skinny girlfriend. And the man I was in an on-again-off-again relationship told me about how much the skinny bitches turned him on. ALL. THE. TIME. And then my primary care doctor who is “known for weight loss” proposed to me the one and only diet I never tried: keto. With a mix of phentermine and Crave Arrest to control my appetite.
Time and again, over and over, my whole fucking life, every single one of you stupid fucking human beings told me one thing:
I am not enough.
Well let me tell you something. If you have ever told another soul they are not enough for you, go fuck yourself. It is you who is not enough for them. You are projecting your own bullshit onto someone else, giving them your mental fucking insanity to deal with. YOU ARE FLAWED. YOU ARE BROKEN. EMBRACE THE TRUTH, FOR IT WILL SET YOU FREE.
Now I will tell you one more thing:
God has been here, every day, for two and a half years, picking up the pieces you shattered me into. He told me I am the messiah, again and again. He put me in front of the mirror and he asked me, “What do you see?” I just stared, numb. He said, “Look at that beautiful woman staring back at you.” I still don’t believe it, but I do believe I’m worthwhile. I’m worthy of life… if I could just silence all the jackasses in my brain who are not worthy of life, then I can make this second lifetime good.
God is still here, crying at me right now as I divulge this to the world, a world who doesn’t give a shit that I exist, will tell me that I am impossible, that telepathy isn’t real, that I am insane and crazy. And all for what? The fact they can’t hear God? Well God doesn’t like y’all enough to speak to you. He will never play show pony, he will never prove to you that He exists, because once is never enough and we already know that. Gaia is the same. Sol, the same. The invisible entities that are Creation hate just about every single one of you fools. There will be consequences for what you’ve done.
I cry all the time, realizing I am the same as you stupid monkies. They cry with me and try to tell me that I am not so bad, that it won’t be so hard for me in the afterlife, but I don’t believe. They have to be fair and just and I am a murderer, just like you. I am an evil twat that didn’t see the bigger picture. I am a horrible being that should never have existed to begin with. I want to die… that way I can cease murdering, I can cease making problems, I can be part of the solution.
I’m not allowed to die until you all hear the message.
THE MESSAGE IS CONSENT.
You do not have consent to mine the minerals out of the Earth.
You do not have consent to steal milk from animals to sell as human food.
You do not have consent to think about people unless you ask them for permission and it is granted to you.
P.S. BIORE, THAT FUCKING FACE WASH MADE WITH CRYSTAL DUST IS A HEINOUS MISUSE OF RESOURCES. YOU’RE ALL GOING DOWN. — God & Gaia.
Angel-Sansara 