Post by styg on Mar 11, 2015 16:22:01 GMT -5
What does the destroyer do when there are no more walls to tear down?
Apparently, she lies in bed for days just drinking wine, watching cartoons and masturbating until her fingers ache because if hollowness is all she has left to feel, she might as well really feel it, or at least attempt to. Then she goes outside and grinds her face into the brickwork until it bleeds, but even pain feels numb these days. She turns the shower to maximum heat, closes the window and vent and then lies down on the bathroom floor hoping that if she feels enough of her own sweat on her face she might find something more than whispers in it. She gets herself crucified upside down with barbed wire at lunchtime in a busy park and she desperately makes up symbolism to justify it, when all she's doing is pushing the trite ideas out her head in the frantic scrabbling hopes that the ones that refill it are more engaging. She gives the world a pile of weapons and stands still as a statue for three hours to see if anyone's willing to try to kill her.
Nobody is.
We know that creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin and that one can't exist without the other. But there's at least one difference between them that matters to me right now: can you create from nothing? I don't know yet. I've never been able to answer that to my satisfaction. But I know you can't destroy from nothing. And all my creation these days takes the form of destruction. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of clearcutting and watching the trees spring straight back. I'm sick of presenting people with a blank canvas and them all just using the same colour. I'm sick of a lot of things. I'm sick of a lot of people. Most of all I'm sick of ME.
I wear my skin like a canvas but the bones it's stretched across are rotten and crumbling. You see me bleed pigment, but on the inside my blood is stinking ichor. I am a perfectly preserved Grade II listed façade hiding a ruin full of rubble and dry rot.
They say it's a jungle out there and we think of animals, we think of predation and the food chain, but really we're the plants. We ARE the jungle and we're all fighting upwards, choking each other, blocking out the Sun so we can have all the light to ourselves. We are vines wrapped around each other, strangling each other, sucking the nutrients out of each other, passing chlorophyll back and forth in the most pointless and endless dance of all. From the squats and traps to the penthouse suites, it's all the same. WE'RE all the same.
Almost. I see Beer Beer Ayano growing on her own. A perfect crimson flower. She doesn't need to suck anyone else's life out. She is who she is. She knows who she is.
I used to know who I was.
I've heard it said that you need insecurities to be successful. That the drive to win only comes from feeling inadequate. And for the first twenty-four years of my life I had - not NO insecurities, but not many. Then everything fell apart and I basically spent 2014 going down a slide headfirst into a pool of shit and I managed to win more titles in that calendar year than any other of my career, and I'd trade every one of them just to have 2013 back. I'm not sure whether what I've got now is insecurity or just raw nihilistic hatred, and I'm not sure it matters. Friends keep reminding me that it's been over a year and half since I was without at least one title with a frequency that makes me question how much they're even really my friends. They seem to forget that championships are not accomplishments. They're just stuff that happens when you wrestle. You accrue grazes, you accrue bruises, you accrue titles, except titles don't go away as fast.
I've had people telling me how incredible my matches last weekend were, but my memories of them are so vague they could have happened years ago. You get plenty of wrestlers claiming they can put on five star matches in their sleep; apparently I DO. When I was facing Jessica Lasiewicz and Kyle Butler at Resurrection, all I could think about was how much more I ought to care than I did that I was set to face XWA's top star in the main event of Massacre. When I was facing Smith Jones, all I could think about was Queen of the Deathmatch and just how much I really could not be bothered with it. When I was facing Kasey Summers, all I could think about was how desperately I wanted to be anywhere else. I went on camera to tell the world how excited I was for Queen of the Deathmatch, and who knows, maybe for the time it took to shoot that video I even believed it myself. But for two hours before the show I was doubled over on the toilet throwing up and having fits of diarrhoea because the thought of facing Annie in a deathmatch was literally making me sick, and punching holes in the wall of the cubicle because this was supposed to be my sanctuary and people like Artemis Kaiser and Kendall Kingham can't even let me have that without their needy bullshit. No doubt idiots who can't see past win-loss records will say I'm just mad I lost; that's cute, but the truth is I'm mad I signed up in the fucking first place.
Next time I become a willing participant in turning my last refuge into the SAME RUTHLESS AGGRESSION BULLSHIT FUCKING FIGHTING SPIRITO FUCKING ASS BULLSHIT that I'm meant to be avoiding in the first place, kill me. I mean it. I'll give you the weapons and stand still for you.
No doubt people will also say, after I've just shat on them like this, that I don't deserve titles or tournaments or what the fuck ever.
Fuck that.
Fuck YOU.
Titles don't deserve ME.
I watch back mine and Chaz and Annie's little bit after A New Odyssey and I see my lips lie, even though again I probably believed it at the time. Can I be real with you, Spitfires? I really don't actually give a flying fuck about a title rematch. Those belts were supposed to be the symbol of mine and Annie's bond and when I look at them all I see reflected in the faceplates is The Black Hand fucking us around, The Infinite Empire running away before I got my hands on them, and that fucking ruin of a match at Final Frontier where I spent the whole damn time wanting to punch my friends in the face just for daring to love me.
GCW World Tag Team Championship? Jesus, I'm about ready to forfeit this whole fucking best of seven thing before it even starts. I swear to god once this is all over I better not face either Jess or Kyle again for at least six months.
GFC World Tag Team Championship? I am going to murder AJ Thomas and blow up Silas World's tour bus on principle. The actual gold and leather? Whatever. Matt and Serena can worry about them, or Nina and Scarlet, or whoever.
Queen of the Deathmatch? I let myself get caught up in the hype from my friends and all the "oh Laurel will be way into that" from people who apparently don't even really know me, and the idea of needing a fucking trophy to validate anything. I already fucking KNOW I'm the best deathmatch wrestler on the planet, male or female, and before you take that as boasting I'm not claiming that's a good thing. It's a horrible thing, and seeing Annie and Nina and Cordy do like I do fills my stomach with ice.
XWA Hardcore Championship? Take it from me. Please. That is not a dare, it's a request. All I ask is that you're good enough to pry it from me. I'm just holding onto it for the person who deserves it.
They say, when a wrestler loses, that the opponent wanted it more, and ninety per cent of the time that's total shite but right now, for me, it's true. Kyle and Jess wanted it more, Smith wanted it more, Kacey wanted it more. No matter what I pretend to myself, I'm just going through the motions in every match I have these days, faking just enough interest to trick my opponent into thinking I'm invested.
I don't fucking want any of this. Being a part of any of this sickens me, figuratively AND literally. I don't want to be some brand or badass-looking face on a poster with a TM next to it, and honestly, I think less of the people who DO want it. You are all some played out insecure fucking babies.
I just want to wrestle, and wrestling keeps getting in the way.
Apparently, she lies in bed for days just drinking wine, watching cartoons and masturbating until her fingers ache because if hollowness is all she has left to feel, she might as well really feel it, or at least attempt to. Then she goes outside and grinds her face into the brickwork until it bleeds, but even pain feels numb these days. She turns the shower to maximum heat, closes the window and vent and then lies down on the bathroom floor hoping that if she feels enough of her own sweat on her face she might find something more than whispers in it. She gets herself crucified upside down with barbed wire at lunchtime in a busy park and she desperately makes up symbolism to justify it, when all she's doing is pushing the trite ideas out her head in the frantic scrabbling hopes that the ones that refill it are more engaging. She gives the world a pile of weapons and stands still as a statue for three hours to see if anyone's willing to try to kill her.
Nobody is.
We know that creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin and that one can't exist without the other. But there's at least one difference between them that matters to me right now: can you create from nothing? I don't know yet. I've never been able to answer that to my satisfaction. But I know you can't destroy from nothing. And all my creation these days takes the form of destruction. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of clearcutting and watching the trees spring straight back. I'm sick of presenting people with a blank canvas and them all just using the same colour. I'm sick of a lot of things. I'm sick of a lot of people. Most of all I'm sick of ME.
I wear my skin like a canvas but the bones it's stretched across are rotten and crumbling. You see me bleed pigment, but on the inside my blood is stinking ichor. I am a perfectly preserved Grade II listed façade hiding a ruin full of rubble and dry rot.
They say it's a jungle out there and we think of animals, we think of predation and the food chain, but really we're the plants. We ARE the jungle and we're all fighting upwards, choking each other, blocking out the Sun so we can have all the light to ourselves. We are vines wrapped around each other, strangling each other, sucking the nutrients out of each other, passing chlorophyll back and forth in the most pointless and endless dance of all. From the squats and traps to the penthouse suites, it's all the same. WE'RE all the same.
Almost. I see Beer Beer Ayano growing on her own. A perfect crimson flower. She doesn't need to suck anyone else's life out. She is who she is. She knows who she is.
I used to know who I was.
I've heard it said that you need insecurities to be successful. That the drive to win only comes from feeling inadequate. And for the first twenty-four years of my life I had - not NO insecurities, but not many. Then everything fell apart and I basically spent 2014 going down a slide headfirst into a pool of shit and I managed to win more titles in that calendar year than any other of my career, and I'd trade every one of them just to have 2013 back. I'm not sure whether what I've got now is insecurity or just raw nihilistic hatred, and I'm not sure it matters. Friends keep reminding me that it's been over a year and half since I was without at least one title with a frequency that makes me question how much they're even really my friends. They seem to forget that championships are not accomplishments. They're just stuff that happens when you wrestle. You accrue grazes, you accrue bruises, you accrue titles, except titles don't go away as fast.
I've had people telling me how incredible my matches last weekend were, but my memories of them are so vague they could have happened years ago. You get plenty of wrestlers claiming they can put on five star matches in their sleep; apparently I DO. When I was facing Jessica Lasiewicz and Kyle Butler at Resurrection, all I could think about was how much more I ought to care than I did that I was set to face XWA's top star in the main event of Massacre. When I was facing Smith Jones, all I could think about was Queen of the Deathmatch and just how much I really could not be bothered with it. When I was facing Kasey Summers, all I could think about was how desperately I wanted to be anywhere else. I went on camera to tell the world how excited I was for Queen of the Deathmatch, and who knows, maybe for the time it took to shoot that video I even believed it myself. But for two hours before the show I was doubled over on the toilet throwing up and having fits of diarrhoea because the thought of facing Annie in a deathmatch was literally making me sick, and punching holes in the wall of the cubicle because this was supposed to be my sanctuary and people like Artemis Kaiser and Kendall Kingham can't even let me have that without their needy bullshit. No doubt idiots who can't see past win-loss records will say I'm just mad I lost; that's cute, but the truth is I'm mad I signed up in the fucking first place.
Next time I become a willing participant in turning my last refuge into the SAME RUTHLESS AGGRESSION BULLSHIT FUCKING FIGHTING SPIRITO FUCKING ASS BULLSHIT that I'm meant to be avoiding in the first place, kill me. I mean it. I'll give you the weapons and stand still for you.
No doubt people will also say, after I've just shat on them like this, that I don't deserve titles or tournaments or what the fuck ever.
Fuck that.
Fuck YOU.
Titles don't deserve ME.
I watch back mine and Chaz and Annie's little bit after A New Odyssey and I see my lips lie, even though again I probably believed it at the time. Can I be real with you, Spitfires? I really don't actually give a flying fuck about a title rematch. Those belts were supposed to be the symbol of mine and Annie's bond and when I look at them all I see reflected in the faceplates is The Black Hand fucking us around, The Infinite Empire running away before I got my hands on them, and that fucking ruin of a match at Final Frontier where I spent the whole damn time wanting to punch my friends in the face just for daring to love me.
GCW World Tag Team Championship? Jesus, I'm about ready to forfeit this whole fucking best of seven thing before it even starts. I swear to god once this is all over I better not face either Jess or Kyle again for at least six months.
GFC World Tag Team Championship? I am going to murder AJ Thomas and blow up Silas World's tour bus on principle. The actual gold and leather? Whatever. Matt and Serena can worry about them, or Nina and Scarlet, or whoever.
Queen of the Deathmatch? I let myself get caught up in the hype from my friends and all the "oh Laurel will be way into that" from people who apparently don't even really know me, and the idea of needing a fucking trophy to validate anything. I already fucking KNOW I'm the best deathmatch wrestler on the planet, male or female, and before you take that as boasting I'm not claiming that's a good thing. It's a horrible thing, and seeing Annie and Nina and Cordy do like I do fills my stomach with ice.
XWA Hardcore Championship? Take it from me. Please. That is not a dare, it's a request. All I ask is that you're good enough to pry it from me. I'm just holding onto it for the person who deserves it.
They say, when a wrestler loses, that the opponent wanted it more, and ninety per cent of the time that's total shite but right now, for me, it's true. Kyle and Jess wanted it more, Smith wanted it more, Kacey wanted it more. No matter what I pretend to myself, I'm just going through the motions in every match I have these days, faking just enough interest to trick my opponent into thinking I'm invested.
I don't fucking want any of this. Being a part of any of this sickens me, figuratively AND literally. I don't want to be some brand or badass-looking face on a poster with a TM next to it, and honestly, I think less of the people who DO want it. You are all some played out insecure fucking babies.
I just want to wrestle, and wrestling keeps getting in the way.