What does a person do when their only reason for waking up in the morning is to write about it?
When the only meaning in their day comes from discussing the meaning of their day?
It never used to be like this. I used to have a real name. My name was Iain Ross Cooper and I was a normal person.
That was a long time ago now. Almost four years since it started. Now what am I? I'm underlined text. I'm four characters and a little head-and-shoulders with no face. I'm a link. A clickable. A statistic, a number in a database, text on your friends list. Or not, as the case may be. Some days, I thank whatever God there is that I chose my old name, my real name, as my username. Sometimes, though, it burns out from the harsh light of the screen like a ghost, the ghost of my old self laughing at me. Laughing at my naivity in thinking it was 'just another website'. Well it's not.
I haven't left my house in two and a half years. I haven't turned my computer off for two of those years, except for a brief period of roughly four hours in 2002 when there was a powercut. I'm not sure of the exact length of time for that because I was too busy trying to cut my wrists with an unfolded paperclip to notice the wall clock, and I had taken my watch off especially for the purpose. Plus, it was too dark to see much anyway. But that was alright. I wanted it to be dark.
I manage to scrape together enough for crackers, bacon and my dial-up account by selling drawings of anthropomorphic animals having sex, drawn from photographs that people on LJ send me of themselves. I charge about ten pounds for a drawing, which is almost enough for a week's supply of bacon and crackers, which I order from Tesco's website. If I can't quite get enough money together, I order my bacon and crackers from America. The weak dollar and subsequent pounds saved more than make up for the lengthy shipping times and resulting mould.
I spend all day, every day, in front of my computer in the one-room flat my grandfather left me when he died. He'd used it for storage. My chair is blue. Sometimes I call it my pencil chariot. I spend all day, every day, in front of my computer clicking refresh. I spend all day, every day, praying for updates.
I spend all night, every night, crying. And then posting about it.
Except I've had enough. I was a bit melodramatic earlier. There is no true breaking point, at least not any more than a blue pencil can be truly broken. Yes, a pencil can be snapped, but it can be resharpened. Shorter, lesser, but still standing. Still writing. For some, such is life. But some blue pencils can't take being broken. As they bend and snap under the pressure, the shaft of lead inside fractures. No matter how many times you sharpen it up, no matter how many times you settle for less, the lead still keeps falling out. This is where I am. So last night, after drawing a picture of a grinning humanoid fox with glasses and a tufty red beard reaming the shit out of a squealing pig's arsehole, I decided that it was time for it all to stop.
I have two blue pencils in front of me now. They are real. They are also the last thing I shall ever have ordered from Tesco's website. These pencils are made to be broken. It is their purpose. I once read an "urban legend" in an LJ community about a girl who apparently commited suicide by shoving two pencils up her nose and then banging her head down on the desk, plunging the graphite into her soft brain-flesh. This is the method I have chosen. The pencils being blue was my idea. I thought that was rather profound, considering what has driven me to this point (excuse the pun).
Goodbye, Live Journal. Goodbye, Brad. You thought you had me.
You were wrong.