Countdown to Self-Destruct
TEN
out
From: Ryan Ross (iamthewalrus86@hotmail.com)
Sent: Fri 6/19/09 11:28 PM
To: Ryan Ross (iamthewalrus86@hotmail.com)
due to what Holly refers to as the CRAZY SUICIDAL BAD-DECISION-MAKING RAMPAGE i have embarked on as of late, i'm not sure what's going to happen next so i've decided to keep a log here through emails to myself (pathetic, i know) to keep track of how this plays out in case i need to go back and revist my past state of mind because you know, sometimes i just wind up thinking WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING??? so this way i will know.
in that case, i guess i should start out describing my current state of mind, so here goes:
well, you know, some days i want to tear my heart out, and some days it's not so bad--but in a mild sort of way, like everything i do is absent-minded, and i've always got that feeling like i've forgotten something in the back of my mind. some days my whole life feels like when you walk into the kitchen and then you forget what you went in there for. like, what am i doing here? some days i just ask myself quietly as i'm brushing my teeth, casually, observing my own dark eyes in the reversed image of my reflection, wondering, what am i doing here? other days i'm so angry and it feels like my chest will split open and i'm silently screaming at myself, at brendon and spencer and jon and mom and Dad and god and everyone, WHAT AM I DOING HERE? WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?
i hate l.a. and i never get out. i didn't really want to leave Vegas but my soul sort of drifted out of that place so i went in search of it, and it was stupid of me to come here. everyone knows there are no souls in l.a.--just beautiful girls and beautiful white powdered lines and beautiful flashes of the camera. the cameras are almost never turned on me, but sometimes i'm walking down the street and i hear the familiar CLICK-CLICK-CLICK and the paparazzi yelling, which means there is someone famous nearby. it's so weird to see them, with the paps shoving the cameras right in their face and asking stupid questions, because i sort of know how it feels, to be worshipped for no good reason. to not know how to be worshipped.
why do they worship me? i am nothing.
my grammar is not the best, and half the time i don't even try, you see. the other half of the time i try way too hard. i am a collection of extremes: too tall too skinny too pale too quiet too timid too too too too too...not funny enough not talented enough not masculine enough not not not... there are a lot of things i am not, and a lot of things i'm not good at. mostly i'm not good at people things. i'm not a good friend or a good boyfriend or a good son or a good half-brother. i'm just ryan, pale skinny ryan who loves The Beatles, and they don't expect me to call, they don't expect me to come around or to say PLEASE or THANK YOU, but sometimes i do and then they smile like they would like to pat my head and call me a good boy and i want to ask why, because am i really that bad? i go home and think about it, and i suppose that yes, i am. i'm irresponsible and lazy and i don't understand people, and when i don't think i can face them, i just don't. and friendships are like anything else, mom used to say, you have to take care of them or they will rust and fade away.
but who the fuck is she to talk about taking care of things? she couldn't even take care of her son.
well, no, that's not right, either. she COULD take care of her son. but she WOULDN'T.
or maybe it's not SON--maybe it's RYAN. maybe it's just Me.
once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, i told spencer about this theory and he kind of halfway laughed at me, sideways (like you do when laughing is completely inappropriate, but you're nervous and don't know what else to do), and said, isn't that what all the damaged kids think? that whenever their parents screw up it's their fault somehow? and then he started talking about how he saw it on dr. phil once, how kids always blame stupid things like divorce and parents ditching their own kids on themselves, and i realized all at once that this was just way too much, so i said, fuck, spence, you watch dr. phil? and he laughed again and that was that.
but that was when i realized i was DAMAGED, and ever since then that word's been stuck in my head. DAMAGED. could i be fixed? i used to think so. these days, i'm not so sure. i don't really try anymore. everyone says i've changed, but really i've just stopped trying. i'm not trying to be RYAN ROSS anymore, with the drawings on my face and the hair straighteners and the musty suits and the ROSEVEST. (i said i lost it, but really i tossed it in the dumpster because i was so sick of it and me and everything, and honestly, i was so jealous of that stupid thing, how easily it made its escape from this life. if i jumped into a dumpster backstage at some venue somewhere--ANYWHERE--i am sure they would dig me out eventually.) i'm not trying to be a good son or a good friend or a good boyfriend. i'm just pale and skinny and in love with The Beatles.
everyone is always talking about how i want to be The Beatles, but it's not that i want to be The Beatles so much as i just don't want to be Me anymore. and it's so easy to be The Beatles, you know? the words are catchy and easy and natural and there's no make-up, no hair-straighteners or rosevests, and the girls think my new hair is ugly so they don't want to make out with me so much anymore. and sometimes i wonder how much i could absolutely butcher my appearance before they would give up on being in love with me. what would it take? if i became the elephant man, would they still want me?
i know that some of them would. i know that some of them would still want me if i were an axe-murderer who listened to barry mannilow and solved crossword puzzles in his free time. they would justify it to themselves somehow. i guess it should be reassuring, but i just feel so trapped sometimes--my heart flutters like a bird in a cage, and i just want OUT.
Out. Out, Out, Out. get me Out of here.
From: Ryan Ross (iamthewalrus86@hotmail.com)
Sent: Fri 6/19/09 11:28 PM
To: Ryan Ross (iamthewalrus86@hotmail.com)
due to what Holly refers to as the CRAZY SUICIDAL BAD-DECISION-MAKING RAMPAGE i have embarked on as of late, i'm not sure what's going to happen next so i've decided to keep a log here through emails to myself (pathetic, i know) to keep track of how this plays out in case i need to go back and revist my past state of mind because you know, sometimes i just wind up thinking WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING??? so this way i will know.
in that case, i guess i should start out describing my current state of mind, so here goes:
well, you know, some days i want to tear my heart out, and some days it's not so bad--but in a mild sort of way, like everything i do is absent-minded, and i've always got that feeling like i've forgotten something in the back of my mind. some days my whole life feels like when you walk into the kitchen and then you forget what you went in there for. like, what am i doing here? some days i just ask myself quietly as i'm brushing my teeth, casually, observing my own dark eyes in the reversed image of my reflection, wondering, what am i doing here? other days i'm so angry and it feels like my chest will split open and i'm silently screaming at myself, at brendon and spencer and jon and mom and Dad and god and everyone, WHAT AM I DOING HERE? WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?
i hate l.a. and i never get out. i didn't really want to leave Vegas but my soul sort of drifted out of that place so i went in search of it, and it was stupid of me to come here. everyone knows there are no souls in l.a.--just beautiful girls and beautiful white powdered lines and beautiful flashes of the camera. the cameras are almost never turned on me, but sometimes i'm walking down the street and i hear the familiar CLICK-CLICK-CLICK and the paparazzi yelling, which means there is someone famous nearby. it's so weird to see them, with the paps shoving the cameras right in their face and asking stupid questions, because i sort of know how it feels, to be worshipped for no good reason. to not know how to be worshipped.
why do they worship me? i am nothing.
my grammar is not the best, and half the time i don't even try, you see. the other half of the time i try way too hard. i am a collection of extremes: too tall too skinny too pale too quiet too timid too too too too too...not funny enough not talented enough not masculine enough not not not... there are a lot of things i am not, and a lot of things i'm not good at. mostly i'm not good at people things. i'm not a good friend or a good boyfriend or a good son or a good half-brother. i'm just ryan, pale skinny ryan who loves The Beatles, and they don't expect me to call, they don't expect me to come around or to say PLEASE or THANK YOU, but sometimes i do and then they smile like they would like to pat my head and call me a good boy and i want to ask why, because am i really that bad? i go home and think about it, and i suppose that yes, i am. i'm irresponsible and lazy and i don't understand people, and when i don't think i can face them, i just don't. and friendships are like anything else, mom used to say, you have to take care of them or they will rust and fade away.
but who the fuck is she to talk about taking care of things? she couldn't even take care of her son.
well, no, that's not right, either. she COULD take care of her son. but she WOULDN'T.
or maybe it's not SON--maybe it's RYAN. maybe it's just Me.
once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, i told spencer about this theory and he kind of halfway laughed at me, sideways (like you do when laughing is completely inappropriate, but you're nervous and don't know what else to do), and said, isn't that what all the damaged kids think? that whenever their parents screw up it's their fault somehow? and then he started talking about how he saw it on dr. phil once, how kids always blame stupid things like divorce and parents ditching their own kids on themselves, and i realized all at once that this was just way too much, so i said, fuck, spence, you watch dr. phil? and he laughed again and that was that.
but that was when i realized i was DAMAGED, and ever since then that word's been stuck in my head. DAMAGED. could i be fixed? i used to think so. these days, i'm not so sure. i don't really try anymore. everyone says i've changed, but really i've just stopped trying. i'm not trying to be RYAN ROSS anymore, with the drawings on my face and the hair straighteners and the musty suits and the ROSEVEST. (i said i lost it, but really i tossed it in the dumpster because i was so sick of it and me and everything, and honestly, i was so jealous of that stupid thing, how easily it made its escape from this life. if i jumped into a dumpster backstage at some venue somewhere--ANYWHERE--i am sure they would dig me out eventually.) i'm not trying to be a good son or a good friend or a good boyfriend. i'm just pale and skinny and in love with The Beatles.
everyone is always talking about how i want to be The Beatles, but it's not that i want to be The Beatles so much as i just don't want to be Me anymore. and it's so easy to be The Beatles, you know? the words are catchy and easy and natural and there's no make-up, no hair-straighteners or rosevests, and the girls think my new hair is ugly so they don't want to make out with me so much anymore. and sometimes i wonder how much i could absolutely butcher my appearance before they would give up on being in love with me. what would it take? if i became the elephant man, would they still want me?
i know that some of them would. i know that some of them would still want me if i were an axe-murderer who listened to barry mannilow and solved crossword puzzles in his free time. they would justify it to themselves somehow. i guess it should be reassuring, but i just feel so trapped sometimes--my heart flutters like a bird in a cage, and i just want OUT.
Out. Out, Out, Out. get me Out of here.
♠ ♠ ♠
New story! There will be ten chapters, but most of them are pretty short (some are very, VERY short), so it's really more of a mini-series than anything.I know this style is pretty different and maybe a little confusing at times, so if you have questions, feel free ask away. That said, some things will be cleared up as the story progresses. This is a bit of a departure for me, so feedback would be nice too.
And finally, in case you didn't read the summary:
Author's Notes:
* The story is narrated via Ryan's emails to himself. Spelling/capitalization/punctuation errors are used deliberately, for stylistic purposes.
* Ryan's email address in this story is entirely made up. I have no idea what his actual email address is or if someone else uses the fictional address mentioned in the story. Please do not try to find out. :]
(...If I get banned for taking creative license, I will LOSE MY MIND.)