I Don't Hate Mondays

"And he can see no reasons, 'cause there are no reasons. What reason do you need to die?"

-The Boomtown Rats, 'I Don't Like Mondays'

PROLOGUE: I Was Not Magnificent

-O-0-o-0-O-

"Some way, baby, it's part of me; apart from me. Now you're laying waste to Halloween. You fucked it, friend; it's on its head, it struck the street."

-Bon Iver, 'Holocene'

-O-0-o-0-O-

Please allow me to introduce myself. How do you do? I'm not fine, and you?

I'm the guy who's going to take your white-washed picket fence and burn it to the ground with words. And watch it smolder while I dance barefoot in the embers.

I wonder what it would be like to still feel alive. But only halfway there. Like some sick sort of corpse with a heartbeat. But at the end of the day, isn't that all we are?

Like a heroin junkie, climbing the stairway to heaven while tar and the human shit they water it down with race through their veins as it makes their hearts shrivel up like a dick in cold water.

With their hungry empty eyes, rimmed in eyeliner; shade 'Insomniac: Two Weeks and Counting' and sunken into their skulls. They scream 'moremoremoremoremore' as the cracked and bleeding lips not three inches down remain sealed shut. Because for some people, obsession just isn't enough. What a sick, dirty goddamn world.

Their rusted silver needles shoot for the Moon and make them see stars.

Sometimes I think of what it would be like to shoot the Moon. It would be a BANG! Ha! Hahahahaa.

I like to imagine I could blow its brains out too. See them painted on the debris left to float in space by people whose fifteen minutes of fame have come and gone, since the Moon doesn't even have walls around it to call its own.

Or maybe the chunks would land splatsplatCRUNCH to Earth, cooked from the speed before impact. Something might even try to eat it. "No, Fido, don't eat THAT!"

Or maybe it could fade away into the dirt like everything else on this god-forsaken planet does. Maggots. Blowflies. Worms. Crawling; squirming their way through big squelchy clumps of green and black and brown flesh. It smells like ROT.

But I don't know.

How could I?

Only gods would be so arrogant as to think they could do such a thing. Okay, you've got me. I AM that cocky. I could so do it. I just… don't have the time.

I know one thing for sure.

I would make the Moon bleed. Torrents of crimson and scarlet reds dripping through the cosmos and staining the black infinity of space. What a pretty portrait that would paint.

That enough for you yet? Has your mind given into the one irrefutable truth of this life? Lies make the world go round and round and round and- oh, look. Everyone's dizzy. No wonder they do so many stupid things.

Of course it isn't. It never is.

The truth is a drug. Marijuana, ecstasy, LSD, cocaine, crystal meth, heroin. TRUTH.

There's never enough. It's seductive in its tangibility; to discover something so free of the taint that consumes us all.

It worms its way into the mind like a parasite, eating away at what makes us.

It tears the membrane of lies that we wear over our eyes like a mourning veil and lets the voices in… and they whisper… WeknowWeknowWeknowWeknowWEKNOW.

They know what you've done. And they use their ugly reality to tear you down until you have nothing. Not even you. You're alone.

And you hang there, suspended.

You're high. Inhale that narcotic. Watch it slip down your throat; through your veins; into your lungs. Become immortal for a few fleeting seconds. Nothing can touch you now. You. Are. Free.

And for once, no matter how much you want to, you can't come down. IT WAS ALL A LIE.

Sick.

People think of the common cold. The flu. Strep throat. Pneumonia. Phlegm coating the inside of the tube you shove food down and breathe out of, dripping straight from your nose, where bacteria goes to die. Coughing it back up in a series of forced chest contractions. Only, you swallow it again. And again. An elevated temperature that means nothing more than contagion. Because you have become your virus.

People think of disease. Leprosy. Meningitis. The Black Plague. Fleas, the messengers of pestilence, cavorting with the vermin who live in the dark holes of filth and bathe in the putrefied waste no one dares to clean. Migrating; moving, always moving. A human host. Now, the flea is contagious too. Regurgitating the infected dead blood of the rat into the bloodstream of the victim. A lamb in a slaughterhouse. Boils. Glands blocked by a torrent of stinking pus and cloudy blood. Red, red tinged cheeks. Dead limbs. Skin decaying. A rattling as they draw their final breaths and pray that they don't get buried alive. Ring around the rosy, a pocket full of posies; ashes, ashes, we all FALL DOWN.

I think of me.

I'm a certified sociopath. I don't feel. Leave me be. Leave me to hate.

I don't feel empathy. I just don't give a damn about most people. I used to care.

But they kept getting taken away from me..

I'm a certified psychopath. Don't believe a word I say. No- believe me. You need to believe me. Because I don't regret a goddamn thing I've ever done. I do not feel remorse.

I revel in the crap most fear.

I do what I feel. And I never feel nice.

I'm certifiably insane.

'It's all in your head' they said. 'It's not real, so suck it up and move on with your life, you spoiled little bastard.'

But I am your boogeyman.

I hide in the shadows in every nook and cranny. I watch you sleep and slip into your nightmares to see you scream. Louder! Louder, dammit! You're not scared enough yet!

'It's all in your head.'

Shut up!

It's real. And that's why I'm the scariest thing of all.

You can pretend. Lalalalalaa, you're not reaaaaal…

You can smile and laugh to brush it off. It's all in your head.

You can convince yourself that this isn't happening. Nothing's there.

But say that even if it IS in your head, you're stuck here. With me.

You can't get out. Either way, it's real to you.

I am king of my sad little world.

Rule with an iron fist on my throne of forgotten dreams over the city around me.

The city of angels has fallen.

No wonder Constance calls me 'her angel. 'Her perfect boy'.

I was the Lucifer of my kingdom. First to fall. Last to hit rock bottom.

Because I lived too hard. I felt too intensely. Everything was too real. And reality feels like shit. Dog shit. All squashy and smelly.

Hell is other people. Faceless strangers in a crowd. I'm always the one who does the shoving. I never get shoved.

And who is more of a stranger to you than yourself? I like to look in the mirror. I don't know the person who winks back at me. I call him 'Alien'.

I mean, I'm a narcissistic charismatic psychopath with mommy issues and even I don't trust myself most days. Conversations with myself go a little something like this: 'That shirt looks great on you.' No it doesn't. 'Sure it does.' I look like a hobo. 'Good.'

I am my own eternal suffering. I hate me. Or do I?

That's why people die so quickly.

The human body was designed to last 190 years. The average life expectancy for most Americans is 78 years.

People can't live with themselves.

They destroy themselves from inside out with brand names, hope and mass-produced lifestyles. Live the McDonald's experience. Become Starbucks. Buy, buy, buy.

I don't wish I was any different. I can't live with me either.

I'm a martyr; the unsung prisoner of society's grimy claws.

And I remind myself of that every time I pull out the woman who spawned this Satan's credit card, a dollar bill and my little white tablets.

With the piece of plastic that purchases nothingness from department stores, I crush my childhood wishes into a snowy pixie dust and pray to whatever god left me on this giant floating ball of dirt that it helps me fly away with Peter Pan. I take a heavy snort of youth. Two. Three. Four. FivesixsevenI'velostcountnowbutitdoesn'tmatteranymore.

I never wanted to grow up. It made Nora sad.

My pure white powdery snow lets me go free. I wish we had winter in California.

Like a bird.

I always liked birds.

The high won't hit me for another few minutes. I'll have time to finish these last few sentences.

Maybe, for just the slightest moment in time, I can leave this place.

Tomorrow, it ends.

(From the personal journal of Tate Langdon, January 30th 1994)

Okay, I'm going to be blunt. I feel the need to hear back from readers before I decide to continue a story.

I'm not going to demand reviews. But I do need to know if people like this so far.

And yes, it will be Violate (my current obsession because I have no life and finished season 1 in two days Dx), but it will be slightly different from the cannon storyline.

In what way?

That's to come in good time, so long as you inform me that this story is worth finishing ;)

And so, I bid you farewell for now, my lovelies. I hope to be able to post another chapter in the near future.

Merida, out.

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Edit: Thanks to Sarah V for the advice. I hope this helped to clear up some of the confusion any of you could have had. I plan on posting another chapter soon, and thank you for the feedback :)