endless toil ((realposting))

sisyphus will always be the most relatable character in greek mythology

i think sharing my mental decline recklessly has become somewhat of a staple on this blog and therefore i might as well keep doing it. don't like it? don't interact. i think i'm just letting my mind wander. 

right now, everything is awesome when i look at it in broad strokes, i don't think I've felt this complete since. since? since. well.
just sucks that all of this is gonna be taken away from me, i think. I'll definitely miss my room, the gorgeous view, I'll miss the gym, I'll miss my art, my bed, my freedom, i think.
I'll miss it all for a different life that might be a chore in and of itself, on top of my actual chores, and i swear to you it's bad enough already. i keep complaining, complaining, complaining but that's because slowly but surely it's all coming down on me. hard.

i think i'm blinded by the idea of friends and human connection that i might get next year. god, who the fuck needs friends if you can be free. i don't want anyone if it means i'm free. what is this all changing for? my parents' marriage, go figure. 
all they do, when they're together, is feed off of each other, they yell each other from time to time, they yell at me constantly. only time I've ever been somewhat mentally sound was around the two of them at once was before the age of 7, back when i still had light behind my eyes man. had good days and bad days like everyone else, but it was generally a nightmare. as a kid, i fucking hate admitting it, but i looked forward to whenever they'd have pretty bad fights and my mom would ignore my father for a while. the house would go silent, finally silent. no constant interruptions, noise, stress, noise, interruptions. peace.

NOTHING is good enough for them
NOTHING is ever ENOUGH.

i can always have better grades, do better, do more, make more, be handsome-er, be fitter, be more successful, more creative, more productive, less tired, less angry, less sad, less frustrated.

i give them the world, man, but my hands can only ever fit so much. 
my mom hasn't said she was proud of me in years man.
i got mommy issues dawg.

i work like a DOG. I WORK LIKE A FUCKING DOG.
they don't care about my well-being until i lash out at someone or severely injure myself.
my parents dismiss any and every cry for help, no matter how explicitly i make it clear to them.
i shook my mother at the age of 13 begging her to do something because i was scared of myself, knowing i was going to harm myself. 

she just kept telling me to man up, dawg.
be a real man, josh. 

yeah mom. i see how it is.




it's like they expect me to shake it all off until i hit the breaking point.
that's when my mother punches the walls and cries because she "failed me."
she had years on years to help me, but she waited til it was too late, til it was over man.

i showed the signs for more than a year before it all went down and she shrugged it off, over and over and over again. she didn't care until she looked like a bad parent, until it looked like she was neglecting me. until the people in her close-knit Mormon community murmured with rumors about her nightmare parenting style.
truth is, it's not just her. my dad's pretty good at looking away.

i don't really expect anything better of them anymore. actually, osborne reminds me of my father, my father reminds me of osborne. I've never mentioned him on here before and i don't know if it's a good choice. i might as well, though.
I'll run it all down for you real quick.

first off, osborne is my best friend of two years. i met him in highschool, we immediately became really close when i joined the school because he's weird and quiet (i love him for it) and i'm weird and hyper and loud and energetic (he loves me for it.) i was the new extroverted bubbly student he took under his wing, he's grown up in that town.
I've told the story time and time again, but i might as well do it again. I'll narrow it down so fucking hard-

sorry i just got my bio final results back and i scored 66% because i don't know how to calculate exact time periods of cell growth or whatever. this is bullshit. i entirely understand how the different processes and systems work, why the fuck are you gonna ask me a question like
"errrm 23 days after x process takes place, what could we expect to see on a lab test result or ultrasound of the given organ? *snorts and pulls up suspenders*"shur up....
we spent like four weeks studying this shit and not ONCE were time-based processes or intervals mentioned are you KIDDING me? that might as well been a math exam man, shoulda thrown in a bit of calculus for good measure. fucking hell.

well
i "digress"

I'll narrow down the osborne thing.
essentially, osborne and i were best friends.
and essentially, him and the other people in the friend group did a bit of matchmaking in an attempt to get me into a relationship with osborne's closest friend, which he'd known since elementary.
did i get into a relationship with them? no. what did i get? molested and abused beyond repair.
osborne turned a blind eye.
he never spoke out about anything, never told off his friend. he just watched me fall apart.
sure, he picked up pieces here and there. said he was sorry. said it when it was just the two of us.
god knows if he could show sympathy for what i went through in front of that friend of his.

but i love him still. two years don't just erase like that. he's proof that i can hate someone and be absolutely crazy about them at the same time. hate might be a strong word, resent. i really, really resent him. i feel mistreated, i feel angry. at him and the situation. he looks away from the fact his friend sexually assaulted me, the same way my dad looks away from the fact that my mom physically assaulted me. really, i tend to see my dad in him. they have the same blue eyes, furrowed brows, and way of laughing. they like long walks, they're big, blonde guys. they have the same sense of humor and non-confrontational character, which they place over their genuine concern. and both of them love me, osborne like a brother, my dad like a father. i don't think I've admitted this anywhere else ever.

actually the only thing keeping me from deleting this is the loyalty to honesty i have and the burning desire to keep my blog as raw as it is. i think i'd kill myself if someone brought this up, i think i'd have to waterboard or mailbomb someone into silence. 

i used to think of osborne as a prince among men, but i'm having a harder time with that now.
it might be covert, but it's an elephant in the room.



man.

speaking of killing myself.

i would never kill myself, not anymore. i used to be unstable but that's over because i simply refuse to give up like that. if things keep going wrong i'm gonna hijack a construction site's bulldozer and go on a little joyride through the local farmer's market.
or I'll steal someone's car and use my highly limited driving knowledge to somehow get into the thousands of unmarked square miles of russian forest. spain to russia? give me four months. 
if i can't do that, i'm hitchhiking. 
if i don't have the money for supplies, I'll rob, I'll steal, I'll kill for all I care.

i'm never going to kill myself. i'm not dying before i see the world with my eyes while i can. I've gone blind on my left, my right is losing it too.
what point is there in wasting my short time and limited opportunity. this life is my only escape from the vast, vast void. whatever there was before birth will there after death, and this is my chance at touch and love and fulfillment. i'm not throwing this away over anyone or anything. 

i have ONE chance to touch boys. ONE chance to make money. ONE chance to kill people i don't like. ONE chance to smell fresh air. ONE chance to commit vandalism. ONE chance for soft boy lips to be on my soft boy lips. ONE chance to travel. ONE chance to jerk off twinks. ONE chance to gamble. 
my plan A? being wildly successful financially, moving into my own apartment, buying and maintaining a nice car, coming home to my cute male housewife cooking me dinner in my kitchen.
my plan B? running away. forests, guns, stolen car and alcohol. as god intended.
my plan C? domestic terrorism.
if i die, it's not intentional. if someone decides to say that I, Josh, killed myself, then they're lying.
i don't care how bad it gets dawg, i don't care what happens, i'm not ending this.

dawg i really did it all on my own
when i was at my worst a while ago
i really did it all by myself.
got better

to me, it's one of those real man things.
i have a testosterone deficiency, it fucks me up, i cope by acting more masculine than i really am.
or not, maybe that's just me. 
i know the tears of joy i cry when i put up muscle in the gym are genuine, i know damn well i'm really fucking proud of myself when i spend time with my dad and he acknowledges me as his son.

i like holding on to "real man things".
i like romanticizing the shit i go through as "real man things".
being lonely? real man.
helping your family? real man. 
working out? real man. 
being unable to cry and having to write thousands of words onto a retro blog just to keep yourself from hysterically screaming and punching holes into drywall because you just cant fucking cry?
real man.
toxic masculinity hurts but it feels so good it's like getting my dick stepped on by a crossdesser
like it makes me feel awesome but it also causes so much pain in me
this applies to toxic masculinity too

god I'm so sorry for making this joke forgive me

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