I find myself exuding sporadic emotional outbursts, my temperament dictated by swings of clinging to chemicals to assuage my anxiety and my anger. Fuck doctors. Fuck psychiatrists. Fuck government taxes and fuck government hours. Fuck tiny prescriptions and fuck moderation.
Leaving Suburbia, leaving behind this deceptively verdant empty jungle, devoid of anything remotely like myself, filled with automatons that drive their SUVs to their jobs so they can make money to pay for their McMansions and their 72" plasma TVs and their spoilt, idiotic fucking offspring's drinking habits and designer clothes.
How can I write from the perspective of someone detached and alienated, suave and manipulative, when I've become the attached, entangled, complicated, internally conflicted piece of shit that the isolation of Suburbia has crafted me into? I think I need to return to the city to find that isolation.
I need to cut out the parts of me reliant on the mass approval of others, of gnats and ants that my vestiges of humanity label people. Maybe then Julian can speak through me.
Fuck you, suburbia.
-M
