#wakingupinmelbourne

[nycrollasintreatment]

One of the themes my breakdown focused on was detachment.

#WakingUpInMelbourne

[nycrollasintreatment]

Imagine that you've talked your way into a position that leads to a freefall down thee ol' shitter. The song Slave To Love cues up around the same time someone takes a squat and makes it rain diarrhea. A vision I had on LSD led to a reality check that put my entire outlook on life down the toilet.

#WakingUpInMelbourne

#StraightOutta1984

[nycrollasintreatment]

Read Like A Book

Blowing up bridges is what I do best. It turned out that orchestrating a false flag witch hunt wouldn't be necessary. It was only a matter of time before I fucked up. It didn't really matter what drugs I was or wasn't on in the situation I was in. What did matter was the broken record playing in my head.

A chill went through my spine because the narrative was the same. In hindsight I might have been better off as the #SociallyAwkwardPenguin who lacks confidence in letting a woman know how he feels. My social skills have improved, but red flags lead to the fact that there's more to my story than being a late bloomer.

After feeling the vulnerability of being exposed, another girl said "hi". Even though I completely off track, the first thing I felt the need to say is how do let a girl know that you like her? One way that you don't go about it mentioning beautiful women more than once.

Things started to go south with the admission that I like to travel to places with beautiful women. Her response was "There's more to traveling than encountering beautiful women. The killshot came after she cut me off. I started telling the story of beautiful women at the pride parade. The words that kept echoing in my head long afterwards was "Why do you keep saying beautiful women? I think you have a problem." This is when she raised her hand and turned her back towards me.

The story I was telling her evolved around a shirt I had on at the time. It read "Do I look like a fucking people's person?". With her back still towards me I finished my story. "Several people made it a point to tell me 'Yes, you do look like a people's person. It freaked me out and I left early". They actually switched up the route to the pride parade last year. Taking pictures at the end of the parade route in midtown was like playing whack a mole. Several strangers coming to the same conclusion led me to take the train home. The village usually comes alive after the parade is over.

Now that I've recounted a crucial point in the narrative, I often ask what would've happened if they story ended here? What if I didn't run into Murray again in Sydney? What if my voice didn't project to the point where people couldn't help but overhear. This suicidal narrative wouldn't be complete without mentioning a period where I shouted and no one seemed to hear. That was during a time where people picked up in the flaws in my character. I look back on that experience as being picked apart by vultures. People can't seem to grasp the toll that took on me. I feel broken to the point where it doesn't make sense to go on living. If the past is the best predictor of the future, female intuition will inevitably play a crucial role in an ending that will come as a surprise to no one.

[nycrollasintreatment]

#MKNaomi's words sounded like record I've heard before. It didn't particularly matter where I heard it or how many times it played. At the forefront of my conscience was the realization that I didn't particularly care to hear it anymore. I'm done with whatever this was supposed to be. My legacy will be summarized by two words.

#CuntKills

[nycrollasintreatment]

What happened on that rooftop in Melbourne can better be categorized as a undermedicated manic depressant pothead suicidal breakdown that spilled over into another hostel in Sydney. It was only a soapbox rant in the sense that my voice was projecting to the point where people around me could overhear.

[nycrollasintreatment]

Eve of Destruction

I couldn't believe this guy was actually pursuing a young woman with special needs. What triggered me on a personal level was the scenario would've played out the same if I was that desperate. She knew exactly what he wanted. This prompted her to spread across a wide cushioned chair while taunting him with words like "You're never gonna get it". Its enough of a challenge for me to lay my cards on the table. I can't help but think about the type of incel who doesn't know how to go about sealing the deal. In this scenario the best you can hope for is flattery. Some women have no quarrels with seizing the opportunity to fuck with you by quoting incel anthems like En Vogue's never gonna get it. There's no shortage of songs that explore the feelings that come over you in the worst case scenario. Case in point, today I found myself watching the music video to The Number of the Beast. The only other time I watched it after the #CollegePoint incident. Ironically when you compare it to #MKNaomi there is a common theme involving the negative judgment in my character. There's a few things that I failed to mention during that undermedicated manic depressant pothead suicidal rant. One is acknowledging a pain so deep that you begin to make a journey to the crossroads. What would compel someone to sell their soul to the devil at this intersection? I recall my mentor in high school telling me how important it is to find my niche. When shit (or memories of it) make its way to the fan (which is often) I find myself raging to a lot of angry music. If I'm in a good mood I tend to steer clear of anything that would put me in a state of depression. In a good mood I might even be inclined to bullshit myself with a love song or two. Sometimes it takes shit like hooking up with a hooker whose ambushed me with her hustle to get me back into Christian music. In my head I wondered how did I go from songs that glorify the power of Jesus to The Number of the Beast? Perhaps there was a push from a girl who picked up on some shit going through my head and concluded "I think you have a problem". There's a plethora of shit I can pull up from my past. That just happened to be the last thing that hit the friend. Puffing the magic dragon inevitably leads to traumatic events making its way back to the forefront of my consciousness. Its easy to listen to the type of music that feeds into your anger. Its convenient to forget that the endgame in all of this is the devil claiming your soul. Once you sold your soul, you begin to enter territory of offering a human sacrifice. I wrote exactly what Naomi said to me. Underneath it I wrote INTO DARKNESS. It wasn't meant to be more than an internal reference. What started as one alarm escalated into something more serious. It wasn't the first time I overcome with those kinds of emotions. Into darkness was about making it the last time I experienced those emotions. Finding two windows to talk about my suicidal feelings was better than remaining silence. At its worst I can recall it being a challenge to even find the words let alone speak them coherently. While talking about the challenges we face as black people, my father said "They really did a number on us". Fucking myself is a science I learned to perfect. Self sabotage aside, alot of hashtags I use on social media chronicle experiences that left permanent mental scars. Failing to move past the number they did on me fuels the rage as I listen to the devil's music.