Smell You Later - It’s Not Me, It’s You

Alt title one: forgive me, HackerNoon, for I have forsaken you too long.

Alt title two: I’m back? tell a friend

The four questions:

1. Who am I?

   
   

2. Where do I come from?

   
   

3. What is my purpose?

   
   

4. Where am I going?

(note to editors: great prompt, add it to the prompts lol)

1. Who Am I?

Jarett Reginald Stewart Fuckin’ Dunn. The Stewart is wrong and was a miscommunication spanning generations and a number of misnamed babies. The Dunn is my mom’s maiden name. We’ll discuss that at some length in the next section.

The Reg is correct, although it’s not Reg- Reg is rightfully Reg, although Dr. Rev Reg liked to be called ‘Reg’ - although his son prefers Dr. Rex.

I will not bother explaining this. Iykyk.

Read again: Few.

Who Am I

I am less human than you. And more. Hirshprung’s dealt me a very precarious set of cards. Tl;dr I am a very, very strange individual - and that’s actually ok. It does make it -incredibly- difficult with other people, who take an awful lot for granted.

I can barely, at the best of times, hold a conversation - even with people I know well and actually like, let alone anyone else.

There’s not many of you I don’t like - there’s a whole lot of y’all I ain’t trusting.

Who Am I

Veteran isn’t a great word. A lot of other veterans will tell me that any service is service - but I left before I could do anything of consequence while I was still too young to be in service according to the UN.

Autistic savant isn’t a great word, although the evidence would seem to suggest I still ain’t had that lil label realigned.

Schizophrenic ‘beautiful mind’ isn’t a great set of words. Disgusting. Also, stop comparing me to Nash lol - I know I just did it myself, but it was very late in life that I personally learned the guy was a misogynistic cunt.

Who Am I

I forget a great deal of my life, actively, on purpose, as cope. My mind often makes shit up to the point I can’t trust my own memory - not that any of you ever should, mind you, it doesn’t even hold up in court.

However, I have a habit of doublethink to keep away trauma which turns me into a pathological liar.

I have a way of playing each of you like flutes, should it suit me, that makes me into a sociopath.

And so? I am everything I despise.

That’s who I am.

There’s another Harlow lyric ( 1 or 2 here already ): the ones that hate me the most are just like me; you tell me what that means.

I think therefore I am comes to mind and we might as well celebrate that weird lil French guy while we’re in French Canada - but that isn’t enough,  by and large, to define me.

I have died 10 000 deaths in worlds none of you could ever begin to comprehend, many many times over.

Alas - I digress - I’m not all that special, just tortured. And, the worst yet is that I am tortured -by myself and my stinky habits-.

Who Am I - can I write who I was, that I will never live up to ever again? Half the man I used to be? Can I write who I aspire to be - which seems an insurmountable task, even though I am infinitely closer to that ideal than I’ve ever once been?

Well, look - it’s actually phenomenal progress, all told, that I’m sure I’m Jarett Fuckin’ Dunn.

Lol.

Believe it or not.

2. Where Do I Come From?

https://www.deviantart.com/dmitriypopov/art/These-are-my-poems-6842104

“The hours tick by and still I find myself staring at the wall, staring through the wall, staring around the wall. I am one with the wall, and the wall is one with me. The wall tells me it's thoughts, it's deepest feelings, it's most profound memories. The wall tells me how I should live my life, tells me who I should listen to and who I shouldn't. The wall determines mathematical consistensies, polynomial equations, bilateral expressions. The wall knows all, as all know the wall.

I live in a little town filled to the spilling brim with little people, little minds fixed on little things. Loud music and slow cars, good food and bad indegestion. I never know who's lying and who's not, and there's always someone lying, somewhere.

these are not in any order.I left out all suicidal works and all works on/about love.” - Me, in my first-ever self-published works, '04.

Deep-seated trauma. Never knew me dad, and you can well be damn sure I’ve got me some superpowers - could possibly be the lawd Jebus 2.0.

Nah, kidding.

Fuck deadbeat dads. Fuck drunks.

Enough of that; I hate focusing on the past -with an absolute passion- cuz we cannot change it - it’s done; focus forward. Next.

3. What Is My Purpose?

I guess I need to stop with the macro shit. Until this very point in time, I’ve been hell-bent on making some kind of everlasting change and helping the average person - and I truly and horribly feel for the trauma and the prisons in which we find ourselves stripped of our rights, freedoms, and the ability to achieve cognition.

Really, I do.

Whether it be actual jail, the opiate crisis, or the ways in which you are all -so incredibly tied- to the paradigms that -are actually inhuman, evil, and taught to you sometime after birth- is unfathomably concerning lol.

Herein lays my problem:

How do you tell a zealot for a given cause, who doesn’t even know they’re brandishing weapons from their own graves dug hundreds of years ago - how do you tell them their fault is zealotry?

I’m -very- unsure what my message, medium, or platform is. I am -entirely- sure I am not my audience. I am also 138% sure that -nobody I talk to- is my target audience, at any point in time. I find context, social nuance, and -every bit of communication- incredibly difficult.

Look up Autism; I dare you. Welcome to my Ted talk.

4. My Purpose

The shit you ppl like to do is boring, lol.

Romance, the rat race. Interfacing with others. Giving a shit.

https://open.spotify.com/track/28rFqLIV8tXfyR9rzPoCLI?si=40d05d45b8db4dc5

I ain’t here to fuck girls, I ain’t here to take drugs. I ain’t here to stop fights, I ain’t want those rights. I ain’t here to talk shit, I don’t care who you with.

I just came for the music.

M y p u r p o s e.

My fb bio for as long as I can remember:

My Twitter bio for years before I started taking it seriously was:

‘I’m still here in case a n y t h i n g interesting ever happens, or on the off-chance I manage to burn it all to the ground.’

The message, the medium, the platform.

I don’t know any of it.

I don’t know who I am or what my self is -

I don’t have any peers -

I refuse to open my brain to the possibility that maybe shit is just ok. It’s fine to be content. Life goes on.

I am lost, broken, and lonely.

My purpose is to find myself, heal, and start to enjoy the company of other people without faking it. To learn to be content.

That’s it.

5. Where Am I Going?

To hell in a handcart.

Nah seriously, I am gonna tie up my laces and move to a boot.

Iykyk.

Nobody knows where they’re going - just flow like water, fuckers. Sui.