2. JAMIE
Last Post
Posted on February 27, 2012 by Jamie Carter
So this is it, people, the final blog from yours truly, Jamie Carter. It’s been a wild ride and I hope I’ve kept you all entertained, but at midnight tonight I intend to bow out for good. I’ve stockpiled a whole bunch of pills and booze (the alcohol is strictly for medicinal purposes), more than enough to seal the deal, and by my reckoning it should be over in about 30 minutes.
Regular readers of this blog won’t be surprised that I’ve decided to kill myself. Some of you have actively campaigned for it, but those dried up little souls will be sad to learn that the decision is all mine and has nothing to do with your dull plastic repetitive drone. I was never good with peer pressure, folks. It just made me want to fuck around that little bit more. If I knew your real addresses, you anonymous snide internet bastards, I would squat on your lawn and leave you a big juicy shit as a present as thanks for all the entertainment you’ve provided me.
So what’s pushed me over the edge? I’ve created a handy list so you can tick off your own personal favourites.
1. Being raped when I was twelve by a family friend
2. Living in this shitty no-name, no- neck town with my hopeless dope-soft slutty right-wing mother.
3. The fact we smile at and cuddle animals even though we know in another room there’s someone cutting their throats for our culinary pleasure.
4. No-one will ever really know anyone else
5. Celebrity culture
6. The fact I’m not famous
7. I’ve cut my arms so many times no man or woman or half / half will ever want me
8. Love is just another way of fooling ourselves our lives have meaning
9. My boyfriend left me
10. We’re all going to die anyway
Only three of those are real reasons, by the way. I leave it to you to guess which is which. I’m not big on the truth, as you know, but then neither is the internet, so suck it up.
I can honestly say I never felt real. If I woke up in a padded white room somewhere after killing myself and someone put a microphone to my mouth and said “what was it like in there?”, I would say “unreal”.
Whenever I look at my body in the mirror, it doesn’t feel real. When I smile, it looks like the smile of a corpse. I’ve fucked a lot of stupid men because I think if I do that, I might start to feel a bit more physical, but that didn’t entirely work. My voice sounds too small and squeaky to even register with dogs. I can’t even hate myself because it doesn’t feel like there’s enough to hate. One time I even pretended what it would be like to be a corpse while Grant was fucking me up the ass. It didn’t seem to make any difference, except at the end Grant said “I liked what you did there.” God only knows what he meant. God only knows what I meant. As if HE really cares. I could have done my nails while he was hammering away like a mechanical monkey.
My psychotherapist says I’m not clear enough, that I lack psychological clarity. I HATE EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE. Is that clear enough, you fucking bitch? I sit in that office two hours a week and I barely say a word, so I’m not sure how much more clear I can be. I hope someone shows her this blog after I’m dead. I have a thousand words I’d like to show you and they’re all FUCK OFF. Maybe you’ll take me a bit more seriously when I’m dead. Maybe you’ll get a seminar out of me. You can analyse my stickman sketches for deeper meanings.
Composure, Miss Carter. These are your famous last words, so you should make an effort to be CLEAR.
I BLAME VIDEO GAMES
I BLAME HIGH SCHOOL
I BLAME FEMINISM
I BLAME PORN
I BLAME CARTOONS. I'M A CARTOON AND SO ARE YOU
Writing is the only time I feel real, but it’s not real, it’s just as fake as anything else because you can’t go as far as you want to go. I had a creative writing class last week and Mr Pitt said that he wanted a 1000 word piece about something we hate. The only clause was you couldn’t write it about another student because that would be hurtful.
So I wrote it about Mr Pitt and how he got wet under his table seeing all the young girls come in every day and how he dreamed about unwrapping them like sweets and lathering them up with his ten foot tongue and his black and white piano fingers. He gave me an A but also reported me to the principal and the psychotherapist, so it was more trouble than it was worth. Apparently while I was in seeing the principal, he gave everyone a lecture about the importance of freedom of expression and the dangers of censorship, but he didn’t say why he was giving it. HA! Fucking hypocrite.
Be creative, kids, just don’t be too creative. Take up photography instead! That’s right. You don’t need any technical ability to do it, no-one criticises you, and it’s so obvious even your dumb boyfriend will get it. Even better if it’s black and white photos of you and your beautiful friends looking disaffected! You fucktards. Anyone who tells you they’re creative rather than just being creative is a prime A fucktard. I should write ten suicide notes and publish them on the internet and invite people to read them and then get them to write their own. People are such fucking sheep. I could set up a paypal account and make a shitload of money out of it, then my brain-dead ma can donate it to some redneck charity or she could set up an anti abortion clinic where you go in but they just have medieval tools in there up on the walls to make you scared.
Do you know what I want? Do you know what I really want more than anything else in the world? I want to live inside Seventies tv, when everything was yellow and groovy and weird. Every now and again, in the middle of the night, when I’m drunk and a bit feverish, one of these shows comes on and I imagine I’m there sitting in some happening or house party and it feels right. A big black guy with a bushy afro says YO BITCH to me and points in my direction and it’s a different kind of YO BITCH than you get nowadays, which is more about violence. Back then, at least inside my head, it was about everyone just letting it hang out and treating each other in a silly way. So I can say WHAT BITCH? back to him and he grins and we go to the back, because these houses always seem to have 6 bedrooms, and lie down and have great sex, with both of us laughing and making fun of each other. And Kermit the frog is watching and filming us and sometimes he has a happy smile on his face and then other times he’s looking really evil, really deviant, like he wants us both to do sick things to each other. That’s Kermit for you, though. You never know which way he’s going to go.
Do you know what I mean? Seventies tv is so bright and perfectly composed, there’s no gaps in it at all. And I’m all gaps. I wish someone would pin me into it like a dead butterfly and I could just be there forever. If there’s a Heaven, God, and you read and like my blog, that’s the Heaven that I’m looking for.
I hate it that I find black men so beautiful. I hate it that I find any men so beautiful. And they love me, they love me so much. I don’t want to look sexy, but my tits get in the way, my hair gets in the way. Short hair = slut. Long hair = slut. Cleavage = slut. Covered up = prick tease. I hate that they’re in my blood. I would love to be a lesbian just so I could tell men to fuck off and mean it. Ha. Maybe I should have got a chastity ring, although those girls are the biggest sluts in the school bar none. The tagline should read TRUE LOVE WAITS [BUT ORAL AND HANDJOBS DON’T COUNT].
Maybe I could carry on living on the internet after I finish it. I’m gonna write this blog from beyond the grave. That way I’d be sure that people were taking me seriously. Mark my words, you bastards, I’ll be back online in a few days with various famous people in tow ready to knock you down with some hard truths. I’d be a lot more worried about Elvis or Michael Jackson coming back from the dead than Jesus, if I were you.
No surprises, move along, move along. I’ve talked about suicide with my shrink, but, as you all know, she never took me seriously. WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE THEM APPLES? I always swerved at the last minute, never told her enough or did anything other than cut myself, so in the end she couldn’t do shit to me. I’ve uploaded her checklist previously to this site [14 February 2010 if you want to check it out], the one with the ten warning signs that you should go get an adult to take over, someone who actually went to medical school. I still can’t believe she keeps it in an unlocked drawer in her desk. I can see her now, at the end of every session, pursing her lips, scrunching up her pretty face, and concentrating really really hard on each item. Hopefully one day she can learn the rules by heart and maybe buy a trapdoor so that she can plunge her victims to their immediate doom.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve started quoting from the checklist directly but she never seems to pick up on the hint. I usually admit to one part of a warning sign but when she asks about the other half, I deny it completely. You might think that’s cruel, but it’s just a job for her, she’s had two suicides and two kids institutionalised already [Hi Kim, if you’re reading! You’re too fat to be bulimic, you cow], so she’s not doing her job properly. The only time I ever got through that granite exterior was when I asked her if being Texan and a psychotherapist at the same time was consistent. The good Docktor didn’t like that one bit.
I feel more ashamed about putting ma through all of this. She doesn’t deserve it. Yesterday, because she forced me to go to Church, I wouldn’t come down for dinner and then when she came up, I deliberately stood in the corner of the room, facing the corner and wouldn’t let her turn me around. At first I laughed like it was funny but then I went completely silent because I knew it would scare her. And it did. I thought she was going to phone the ambulance. She was that freaked out.
To all those people, btw, who say this blog is a cry for help, all I can say is help yourselves, I’m all yours. I don’t want or need anything from anyone because what you have to offer HAS NO VALUE. One moron posted a few months ago that the reason I was so down on myself is that I hadn’t travelled much and if I saw a bit more of the world, I would cheer up. I’ve got news for you, bud. There are pyramids and camels in Egypt. There’s a couple of palaces and a big clock in London, and a whole lot of dope in Amsterdam. Which part of the world were you thinking about? Do I die at a different speed in Paris? Are the men less boring? Do their dicks bend differently?
Thanks for your clichés, anyway, moron, and hope you die in a plane crash [the irony will hopefully hit you before you hit the ground]. I know all I need to know about this world and it stinks. Stop fooling yourself. This world is shit and I’m not going to put up with it any longer. So Fuck You All, IT’S BEEN NICE KNOWING YOU.
Just kidding. It was shit knowing you.
J x