SOC #40: Olavi's paper scars

Olavi: "I don't have any visible scars on my skin. I've never been stabbed, but I've had a knife pulled on me. I've never been shot, but I've had a gun drawn on me. I've done plenty of drugs, but never got to a point where I fell down stairs, crashed my car, ran into a glass wall, jumped off a building with the thought I could fly, or have been beaten to a bloody pulp by a fool. My hearts been broken, shattered to pieces, but there's never a scar for any us who have suffered such travesty. My scars are within my own mind, memories which triggered my last great horror, faded by the passing of time - many years, in fact - for me to regurgitate into words a prolonged experience I hopefully will never live again. I say 'regurgitate' for I feel it's the healthiest way to relieve what I consider an aggravation of silence. Of course I could tell a completely fictional tale that has nothing to do with what I'm about to tell, but lets face it, every fiction was inspired by truth in some for or another. I looked at the stories I had written and saw myself in them, like pieces of a puzzle I stole from a box and reshaped for selfish reasons. When I finally had come to this realization, I said, 'What the Hell. I'll simply write about myself, get it all off my chest. All those times on drugs. The sex, the booze, the parties, the field of weed, the house of weed, the trip to Vegas and Comic-con, the two psychosis', and the suicide attempt in one epic of an autobiography.' What it really took was a painting I had someone make of myself with my shirt off, my devilock down over my face, and a cigarette hanging from my lips - also my beer gut sticking out in front of me. I looked upon this image, and asked aloud to myself, 'Am I Here?' And like that one chef use to say, BAM! I had another novel in mind with all my good and bad memories inside it. It would be like James Frey's Million Little Pieces, but without all the heroin use, and the fact he called it a memoir when it really was semi-autobiographical fiction. 'Fuck it,' I said to myself, still looking down at the painted image of my fat-ass, 'It will be fictional, because I want the story to be more entertaining than what happened in reality, more intense, more drugs, more sexual content, and... a lot more drugs, like shrooms laced with acid, and.... more cocaine. I mean, there's no other drug that makes a story about drug abuse better than cocaine. And the psychosis parts will be each FIFTY PAGES LONG! No paragraph breaks.' Okay, it's not Olavi talking right now, it's actually the writer of these words. Don't worry, the author is not suffering a mental breakdown, or some kind of split personality kind of thing. But you'd find that more interesting if that were really happening, wouldn't you, you reader? For you love the dramatic over the mundane sanity. Moving on. I want to show off my scars in the form of words to whoever will read them. Will the story be entertaining? Yes, I think so. Will it be any good? How the Hell should I know? Honestly, I don't even care. I don't even care how this blog post will be perceived by others. I think it's gone too far out to sea, pulled by the tide to be honest, because I had some idea on how this would go, like I'd get into something about how the consequence of losing ones own mind - no matter how innocent the circumstances - will be the fact that some of the people you care about will avoid you at all costs, never saying a word to you for years. Or if you don't cry when your heart is broken by a woman you'd thought would be in your life until death, the bitch wasn't worth it, and you tell everyone if she ever called you back, you'd tell her, 'FUCK OFF! YOU CUNT!' Then after two years, she sends you an e-mail telling you how much she missed you and regrets not calling you, she feels bad about it and all that shit, then inside you cry with joy like a Star Wars fanboy meeting Mark Hamill for the first time at the airport. Or the fact I didn't end up in jail a few times doesn't mean it was worth it. Anyways, where was I? Fuck. I always get lost in these little insignificant tirades I find myself doing. Kind of like the times I'd smoke weed and talk philosophically for hours. I'm done doing that mundane horse-shit anymore. I don't even care if weed's legalized. I ain't touching it. By the way, none of this is ending up in Am I Here? So don't think this is some special sample. Damn, this post has really gone off the deep end, hasn't it? Okay then, I'll give you a sample: 'In Vegas, my friend Mario and I were invited to a penthouse suite at the MGM Grand by this rich guy (I forgot his name, so don't ask) where we witnessed his wife and four hookers stand in a circle, taking turns (Warning: adult content)... peeing inside an empty pitcher. When they were done, the rich man picked it up and began drinking the piss in large, unwavering gulps. We screamed in disgust, horror, and genuine shock, then ran the fuck out of there.' Did you like that? If you didn't, go read squeaky clean fucking Twilight, or some other escapist bullshit. There be only truth and honesty in the stories I tell, whether fictional, or inspired by fact. The next chapter of Am I Here? coming soon. It's the best part, where I fell in love with Summer. No, not the season, the person, a real kind and beautiful woman. She took my virginity, you know. Olavi OUT!" \m/