Of late, I have no interest in living. I survive because suicide is the coward’s way out (or so they say.) I have no interest in anything, and my ambition fades in minutes. I’m depressed, and I’m very lonely. Depression doesn’t only entail feeling a profound sense of loss or grief. Sometimes you feel nothing. You’re empty inside, and purpose isn’t forthcoming. Gone are the days of my youth when naivety triumphed, and I found joy in the simplest things. I adapted to any circumstance back then. I played football on the streets, laughed with friends who lived nearby, climbed houses and irritated neighbors, despite the abuse my father dealt out at home.

These days, even things like bathing or brushing my teeth feel like a chore. I haven’t showered for weeks now. I’m smelly and haggard. My teeth are yellow and will soon fall off. I don’t eat meals on time, and my sleep cycle is fucked. I don’t want to wake up every morning. I would sleep for twenty-four hours if I could. I used to read regularly, but these days I’m unable to sit and let my mind work. Reading is a strain, and writing is a greater one. The only things I’m good at are smoking and farting. I mean, look at me! I’m 31-years-old; I don’t have a job or a girlfriend, I splurge on books I’ll never finish reading, I hate myself and have a non-existent sense of self, I despise company and yet feel lonely, I smoke until a bout of asthma kicks in, I hate social media, but I’m addicted to it, I’d rather fuck than watch porn, but I don’t have a choice. I’m a fucking mess.

I spend many nights thinking of ending it, but I know I won’t go that far. I’m a failure. I’ve spent the last eight years of my life, trying to be a writer, and look where that’s gotten me: Delusional, neurotic, impulsive and deranged. Nothing excites me anymore. Even if I were to travel to a beautiful mountain, I’ll find no peace or a sense of tranquility. I’m that disgruntled with my life. And it’s not like things are going to get better anytime soon. I only see more unhappiness on the horizon. More sorrow, more struggle, more madness and more destruction. And don’t give me that, “Your life is what you make it!” nonsense. For most people, that holds, but fate has hardwired some of us to self-destruction. We’re born with the genes of incompetence and irresponsibility that manifest when we hit adulthood. We’re misfits, losers, madmen, malingerers and complainers. Hell, we’re deadbeats, hobos, addicts and layabouts. We were never supposed to be in this world.

We in an era of motivational speakers, TED talks, Pentecostal word of mouth (or is word of faith?) ‘believe and it will be yours!’ hysteria, Joel Osteen, self-help books and maniacal optimism.

“Fake it until you make it!” A prophet of positivity cries. “You are what you think!” Another exclaims. “When you fall; fall forward!” Denzel Washington says, oozing confidence.

Facebook and Instagram only promote this by urging us to make ourselves brands and not people. On Facebook, you’re either the traveller, the political critic, the movie buff, the meme promoter, the life quote advocate or the bar hopper. On Instagram, you’re either the amateur photographer, the poetaster, the doodler or the family man/woman. Anyone who doesn’t conform to this finds themselves ostracized. Trust me, I know! I’ve written the most negative shit on Facebook, and I’ve paid for it dearly.

But why this fuzz about positivity? Why are people reducing themselves to mendicants of optimism? It’s for the elite anyway. Most of you will lead average lives with average jobs and average expectations, which doesn’t call for any celebration. And some of us will lead below-average lives with no jobs and no expectations. We’re the scum of the earth. The doggerels among society’s poems. And I’m here, the worst written, wordy, most humorless doggerel ever.

Hell, if I were a comic book character, I’ll be the sidekick’s sidekick. The unfunny, silly character with no superpowers who’ll vex the reader. Yeah, I’ll be the Jar Jar Binks of the comic book world. I’ll make the reader pray that they’ll kill me off in the next issue. Look at me! With moobs and an Indian policeman’s paunch. I waddle to the cigarette store where the vendor looks at me with contempt, and waddle back to my lonely apartment where I munch on Tacos or Burritos and intersperse it with smoking. And then, I complain about my arse burning when I take a shit!

Imagine if I were in a Western. I won’t be the good, the bad or the ugly. I’ll be the idiot who shoots himself in the balls. Imagine if I were in a sitcom. I’ll be the creep next door with a pornstache who flirts a little too aggressively because he’s desperate. Imagine if I were in an action flick. I’ll be the first guy the big shark or crocodile eats up. Imagine if I were a character in a novel. I’ll be the false protagonist in the prologue who doesn’t make it to the first chapter.

I’m disgusting. I want this all to end. I’m sick of typing out another nihilistic or quasi-nihilistic poem. I’m sick of writing about circus freaks wearing jockstraps, or showmen with dildos up their arses. I’m sick of it all. I’m so tired that I don’t even like music anymore. I can’t find a tune that sticks. I search futilely for a piece of music that mesmerizes the soul (ignore the hyperbole) but find nothing. Music used to be my go-to place when I was down. These days, I find it boring.

I’m an Indian hillbilly (not the hardworking sort.) I lack the twang, and I don’t like beer too much, but it’s just a matter of time before I put a shitter on the porch and sit on it with a porn magazine and cigarette. Damn! I’m filthy as hell, and I’m not as ashamed as I ought to be. I drink twelve cups of Joe each day and piss twenty times. There are times when I miss the toilet and wet my pants a little. I don’t bother changing because, hell, that’s the Indian hillbilly life!

If I were white, I’d be trailer park trash. A dirty bastard with an overgrown mullet who shoots rats and lives off food stamps. I’d be the welfare king of kings. I’m lucky that I come from a middle-class family, and that I don’t live in the challenging make it or break it West.

Look at me! So fucked up and thinking everything’s a damn joke. I don’t know what they’ll write as my epitaph. Maybe, “Here lies a loser who mooched off his parents for ‘intellectual growth,’ but he was as dumb as they come. P.S. He was also the dirtiest man alive,” or maybe they’ll etch a few lines from Creep by Radiohead.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2019)

Image by Bansi Patel from Pixabay

36 Replies to “The dirtiest man alive”

    1. I tagged it under creative writing because I used a few analogies. Otherwise it’s a confessional. I can understand why a lot of people didn’t like this, but writing it all out helps me.

  1. I’m sorry your feeling so low. Truly, I am. Here comes some tough love. Take a fucking shower. You’ll feel better. Stick your head out the window of wherever it is that you live. Feel the sun on your goddamn skin. Brush your teeth. I dare you to even put on clean clothes. I’m willing to wager that you’ll feel slightly less like dying. You may not be ready to tap dance but pissing on yourself might upset you a little more. Ok, now that I’ve said all that, please try to picture me doing so with kindness and concern in my eyes. I still mean all of it. Do that shit! It just comes from a good place and not one that doesn’t care about your feelings. I’d hug ya if I could. <3

    1. Thank you so much for the support Christina ❤️ it truly means a lot to me. I do plan on taking a shower and brushing my teeth today. I used to be trim and play football every day before my bipolar diagnosis. I remember feeling the skin on my sun then. What I’d give to relive those days! Yeah pissing on myself is a nasty habit that I’m quitting completely. Maybe one day I’ll be ready to tap dance! I’d hug ya back if I could. Thanks again for the tough love ❤️

  2. I completely feel this Nitin. What a huge fucking waste it all is. At least you have the tenacity to at least write it out. I’m still commenting with exclamation points.

  3. I’m old enough to be your mother, and I’m sure there’s a girl out there for you. You’re intelligent and not bad looking. Can you find some single girls online and talk to them then meet someone? Don’t give up. Also, don’t shoot anyone, yourself included. (I’m American, we have to worry about that.) Good luck.

    1. Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot myself or anyone. We have really strict gun laws here in India too. The whole online dating thing in India doesn’t work the way it does abroad. I guess we still haven’t caught up yet. But I’m hoping to get my act together and find someone eventually. Maybe I’ll join a book club and find a like minded girl. Thank you for your comment.

      1. A book club is a great idea! Do they have art clubs there too? Here, in the art groups the girls always outnumber the guys and even if you don’t do art, if you just throw some paint on a canvas any old way they will love it! The male artists get the prize money and sales.

      2. I doubt there are art clubs. Maybe one or two. I’ll have to look. I went for an art workshop once. The person in charge was appalled by my work lol. She politely called it ‘emotionally strong.’

  4. I don’t want to ‘like’ either, but do like Christina’s comment a lot. I want you to know that I feel positively that you’ll get through this if you keep writing it all out. You have, at your disposal, a talent that allows you to write all the fucking shit down. It’s only shit…it is temporary and it WILL get better. Do all the things that Christina suggests. Do all that and then write about it. Tell us everything that happens every day till it all the shit starts to fuck off. We’re gonna read it and some of us will comment, some will like just so you know you’re not alone. You are NOT alone. Please keep writing. Don’t stop.

    Yesterday I thought my son was going to kill himself. I didn’t know what to do and I DEFINITELY didn’t know what to fucking say! I went off the phone and damn near broke my heart…but that was not the answer so I Googled suicide prevention (yesterday quite by chance, I met a suicide prevention nurse) and it said “ASK THEM” so I called him back and I asked him. He shouted at me, screamed in fact, angry that I’d asked, but not for long. I eventually came off the phone feeling more positive about him. Today HE called ME. I tell you this because what you wrote here is word for word what my boy’s been saying about himself. I love him, of course, but I care about you, about anyone who’s going through this shit. There will always be more people caring than you could possibly realise. 💕

    1. That’s such a beautiful comment. You’ve shown me so much support and I’m very grateful. I plan on writing it out. It’s the least I can do. Writing it out doesn’t feel great when you’re doing it, but when you sit and reflect later, things dawn on you. I like that you said that it’s only shit. That’s an attitude I ought to adopt. I’m so thankful for the positive, loving comments I get here on WP. It definitely makes me feel like I’ve found my tribe. The ‘friends’ I know and studied with don’t care at all about me. For them, I’m some source of entertainment.

      I’m sorry you had to go through that with your son. But I’ve realised after reading that story that I’m not alone. There are other people who struggle with depression. It’s a curse and it affects the whole family. My poor mom has been hoping that I’ll get my act together for years now. I hope to make her proud one day. Thank you so much ❤️

      1. Today’s been a worse than shit day with my boy. I sat with him yesterday and I considered letting him read your blog, just so he’d know he wasn’t alone either. I was worried he’d read my comments too though, so didn’t. He doesn’t want to read or write anyway and he definitely can’t talk about it. But I REALLY appreciate everything you commented back AND it makes me hopeful for all of us depressives, for those of us who are still struggling, for those, like me, who have gone through it and have come out the other side. I was once like you and my boy, you see. I’m not talking out of my arse. I know how to fight the fucker but I don’t have a clue how to pass on that wisdom to him or to you. Writing saved me, (along with the thought that someone else would have to tell my kids that I was gone). It’s too hard to find the thing that gives you the greatest joy when you’re sinking in the shit though, isn’t it? ❤ and Peace.

  5. If someone you cared about came to you and said these things, what would you say to them?

    I’m not looking for a response, just something to think about.

    And quit pissing on yourself, you dirty bastard.

  6. It seems to me, Nitin, we do have
    a mutual enemy. Does he come to
    kill, steal, and destroy, all that we
    hand over in that long night of the
    soul… lost in the law of entropy?
    All I can say regarding him who is
    truly beastie, you’ve gotta fight for
    your right to party. For becoming
    a love child of God is a right.
    And it is worth the fight ✊

    1. Do the aliens have a special cream that helps fight this enemy, or is the devil a mutual denominator of evil in all galaxies? Let’s hope God can help a man with no faith, I guess.

    1. Yeah Ivor. Sometimes I write really dark essays about my struggles with depression. It’s a way of coping, I guess. Thanks for reading, my friend.

  7. I’ve stared at this blank comment screen for 10 minutes now trying to come up with the perfect thing to say. I am truly hoping that this is a bit of creative writing so I will say, “You are right, in the end, now matter what we say people will still judge us. So screw ’em.”

    1. No. This is sadly a confessional and not creative writing. I tagged it under creative writing because I’ve used a few analogies. Life is hard Jerry, and I’ve been on the receiving end of judgement too many times. I’m just thankful for the people on WP who don’t. They inspire me and encourage me to do better.

      1. That is the nice thing about WP friends, you can vent anything to us and we will be there for you. We’re all just trying to get through it all, one day at a time.

  8. oh my gosh, dear Nitin. There is so much love for you on this blog. And some awesome advice here from some wonderful people!!
    I’m sorry you feel so low. I am sooo moved by what Allane shared as well!!

    You also made me laugh!! I mean, you have it tagged humour, and honestly, that paragraph, “Imagine if I were in a Western…” I actually laughed out loud. It’s too bad we can’t share a beer and do some serious belly laughing at some shit.
    (It also reminded me of one of my favourite funny movies. It starts off slowly, we almost didn’t continue watching it, but I am sooooo glad we did. It has true comedy gems in it. It’s cheesy and ridiculous, but parts are really clever. Plus some philosophical moments to boot. Maybe you have heard of it or even seen it.
    Here’s a clip with the character you made me think of…he thought he was expendable and hopeless…)

    I am going to assume you know I am not trying to trivialise any of this…depression lies to us. It lies. And I really really hope you can feel what everyone is saying here.

    1. Thanks V! I’m so grateful for the people here who support my work and help me battle my inner demons. Yeah the past few weeks have been hell.

      That paragraph was intended to make people laugh. I watched the clip. It’s some sort of Star Trek parody isn’t. I haven’t watched it but I like a few parodies. I recently watched the Justice League parody, The Boys on Amazon. That was dark and hilarious.

      I know you’re not trivialising any of this. Depression destroys us and yes, it lies. Thank you so much for your kind comment 💓

  9. You have so much talent. Everything you post is beautiful–even this, although it’s painful, too. I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Is there someone you can talk to (a doctor or a therapist?)

    1. Thank you so much for your kind words. I’m always thankful for your support. I’m on medication for Bipolar Disorder. I’m thinking of changing my shrink and the medication combination. It isn’t really helping me.

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