I Accidentally Wrote This for You, Elizabeth Wurtzel – Poem by Cody Peters

I Accidentally Wrote This for You, Elizabeth Wurtzel

 by Cody Peters

Let me tell you about right now.

 

I am probably going to die, as my blood is full of Ritalin, Vicodin, Testosterone

Should I do a beer? If you say “yes” then that means you want me to die!

People should think a little bit about certain things.

The way I see it right now, they feel when should think

and think when they should feel.

 

Right now is a 2:34 AM nightmare and sleep is not even close to maybe

So the iron horse has tempted death the day after Michael Jackson died.

I can’t be without drugs and the shift from the real.

They can’t be with me without drugs and the shift from the real,

I am a monster and I have so much pain.

I just couldn’t think of trying to conquer any more.

Am I wrong to realize when I am beaten?

I am so sick, the heart in my chest is no longer my own.

Why it keeps beating is a God secret I hope he never learns.

Or payback will be a baddie.  God is a little flighty, but stern.

 

Right now I am afraid to sleep.  I fear the loneliness of the pillow.

This life has been so to burn the life away.  My dreams are dead and I am alive.

My heroes had it the other way around.  I am an extraordinary spirit in a mundane life.

Stuck without the will to weather any pain.  So no suicide!

My mind is not going to stop.  I am not in control.

I only know how to dodge, not endure (any more)

I am so battered from my life that the sadness is too overwhelming.

I wish I fell in love.  I did, but each time it was ripped as a piece of my heart.

Perhaps it tempered it so it can endure my need for anything to shift my real.

I know I will not heal.  I love and believe, but I just got a bad hand.

I play this game with the best cards in my hand that do not connect to make me a winner.

I look great losing though, I am Elizabeth Wurtzel without the Ivy.

I am Layne Staley without the magic.

I am Michael Jackson when it comes to being slain by the world you wish would love you.

Mostly, after reading all of the books on Amazon about drug addiction and depression

I realized that no one really understands me.  Awwww.  These days, nobody cares.

I wait for an email, a call, a visit, a drug, a change in my brain that will stop the heavy

That keeps me driven to escape so far and endanger my self.

 

For all who don’t have their own times, you have it all wrong.

Drugs don’t make a junkhead high, they are like this:

Our Elite Race of stoners, junkies, and freaks live in a constant rainstorm

We look at the boring normal people and see that they all have umbrellas

We were never given one, so we are getting cold, shivering, and soaked.

Drugs are our umbrella.  So we can be more like you.

Sure it’s like the five-dollar one you buy on the street, but most of the rain is blocked.

That is, until the umbrella starts to fade like Cinderella.

Then the cold comes again and we get sick.

We go seeking another umbrella, ironically for our own health.

Then this hunt consumes.  We are a closed cycle of umbrella patrons.

Well, since umbrellas equal drugs in this ditty, we are the famed “drug-seekers”

It’s really just a rain thing, don’t sweat it.

But I can suffer deep pain from somewhere. A broken life perhaps?

Or I can finally give up at 30 and try to avoid the hurt.

 

Right now I’m coated in chemicals and in love with the idea of dating Elizabeth Wurtzel

She would love me.  She’ll never see me because of her status.  Bad for us.

We would take it by the core and she’d foil my baddies so we could start better trouble.

Elizabeth, you were me and I will be you.  If this is true then I would call a big fan like me

Don’t you want to at least write to me and tell me some good books to read?

Or NYC hangouts?  Share stories of your societe, miss cocktail party.

I’ll give you back some years and you boost me a few.  We’re of a mind that is mystery.

I am amazed by my stanza to EW.  I’ll send her this.  If she doesn’t respond

Then I know she’s not nearly like me at all. 

Aren’t you at least curious?

 

Right now I am looking for what I need.

I always do and am fooled or am lost.

How low do you go before impact?

I must be so damn close

Here comes a crash.

 

Do you think it will hurt? 

Slipping into eternity with a Ritalin pupil dilated so

I don’t miss a thing.

Law School and the Pleasant Surrender of Everything

It all looks the same, but only people with considerable personality disorders enroll in law school and actually make it through the first semester.  Our goals are selfish and means masochistic, so we embrace abuse to do the superhuman, we must become inhuman.  The rules of “normal” do not apply to us.  We are not better, but we are not the same.  Something has been killed in us as simple as illuminated in the maxim, “Ignorance is bliss.”  Well we’re not ignorant any more.  The world is full of unspeakable horrors.  Messes made by insufferable people left for lawyers to clean up and profit from.  Basically, that is the overarching principle guiding our course of study thus far.  On deck for next semester, I have elected to take Professional Responsibility.  This is a required course in the ethics of lawyerdom.  I felt that it would be funny.  I am sick and need mental help.  That is why I shine in law school.  I’m the sickest of the sick in my class.  Law Review awaits!  I’m already the lone scholar chosen by the school to represent one of the richest most successful men to graduate from my program.  See.  Surrender everything and become a monster.  I love it because I can dispose of the facade I’ve built to be normal and resume my more comfortable role as a predator.  I’ve found my calling amongst the wolves, readers.  I wish to make it clear that law school will take your soul and replace it with space for your ego to grow (he is cramped within the strictures of your current “normal” life).   I will keep you updated as I learn the “ethics” of being a monster.  Stay tuned…FUN ABOUNDS!

To NakedEric Readers: Leave Comments You Piggies!

I toil and trouble, I boil and bubble so that words come out and I press the buttons on this machine to create these sentences I leave for your swine-o-vision. In the last week, the amount of visits to this humble blog has TRIPLED! So now I feel like I’m being fondled by strangers. I hooked up with Tina Fey that day, but you are all strangers with no face. I want to get to know you and your PIN numbers. Don’t be foolhardy. How are we going to take over the world if we don’t even introduce ourselves? I will always write to puncture the poop bag of our pop culture and let the aroma dangle in your fangle. Someone has to do this dirty dirty job. I am glad to welcome you to this place of peace and yum yums. But please, leave a little comment or urine specimen behind for us to fondle… OKAY??!?

-NE

Kill me. Now.

singingbee1.jpgI am looking at my television. This is what I see:

Joey Fatone of the Boy Band era has just popped up on my screen, opened his bloated mouth and indicated that I was welcomed to his show, “The Singing Bee”! No insects were to be found anywhere. Then he announces that a special guest is here and had some Asian lady scream out “Here are THE VILLAGE PEOPLE!!!” Yeah, the damn YMCA folk.

Now camera pans to stage and the VP are dancing around doing YMCA as FATONE dances with the Asian Lady/Screamer in a way that makes ME look like Elvis. The first contestant comes out, starts dancing and falls down. FATONE laughs and explains that the rules are the game are to sing the missing line of a song played by the recently YMCA’d stage speakers. The fallen contestant gets up and stares at the camera. CROWD GOES WILD. They sing as in church to the VP. The scene is basically impossible to describe with any justice. It’s a bunch of bouncing, bloated fools with a neon bee on the wall. Joey Fatone is Satan in this particular ring of Hell. Take the worst thing you’ve ever watched and marinate. Then stab yourself. Then stab me. Kill me. Or kill the NBC Exec. who greenlighted this piece of fecal matter.

FATONE just corrected a contestant who sang the wrong lyrics to a Journey ballad. I really do think it’s time for the Aliens who left me here to come pick me up now.

Naked Eric. The story. The misused period. The use of the word “the”.

This is a blank page.  If you take away all of the words, it really looks blank.  I only say this because I feel guilty about wasting paper scribbling scrabbles on it.  I want to tell you about this page and its purpose.  The cool part about this goal is that it truly has no purpose.  I only seek to drizzle some smiles over this world that has come to resemble a poop crepe.  If I had a band or a clothing line I would call it “poop crepe”.  ::sidenote – my dog just farted and it smells really bad.  Poor dog.  Where’s my lighter?::  Poop crepe because (insert end of sentence here).

Naked Eric is me, just me.  It’s the name my parents gave me when they made me.  Naked is being used in a way that implies lacking shrouds of any type.  Your shroud is the pretty face genetics ripped into your flesh.  Mine disappeared the day I almost died in a car accident in New Jersey.  I couldn’t find it so I run naked like a retard child through this semi-adult life without the ability, capacity, or desire to hide truth from others and, in turn, the world itself.  Hence, “Naked Eric”.  I like diddling by myself with words and hummy tunes.  I think that it must be fun to be  writer.  Professionally it must be so very, oh so very super-duper!  I would like people to get a kick or a nut scrump from what I think about enough to drive several fingers into the requisite keys representing its component letters in order to make it appear on my screen until I CLICK “submit” and the thought went from my noggin to your noggin via several strange steps that merit better description than a wretched run-on sentence and words like wretched and redundancy and self loathing and verbal Fibonnaci sequencing and big words used just to sound smart, not to convey anything valuable or meritorious to be absorbed by the text block as a whole and munched by your comprehension.  The joy (or “yoy” in Espanish) of writing is that i can push a button with a letter on it and it pops up on my screen.  I just keep doing that.  It’s my only tip for aspiring writers.  Aspire, teddy.  It is a silly oopsie nomenclature when we find ourselves engaged in the same wondertastic convo in New York City with the proximate yuppie actor wannabe.  The yup says he is an aspiring actor.  It is not okay to call yourself a verb.  I think many people are aspiring.  Imagine:  Hey, I’m an aspiring Administrative Assistant.  She want to move up in the company, so in that case I guess it is more like an adjective.  Are YOU like an adjective?  See, one truly can’t say that they’re an aspiring anything.  I believe this because there is no contrasting voice.  Is there a non-aspiring actor?  Okay, one who “makes it” is a professional actor.  Others below them are amateur or “aspiring”.  Wait!  There it is.  Say you’re an amateur actor.  I fixed your problem with verbage you punk lily  so keep aspiring.  I have an amateur blog to desecrate!

I am in love with your pets and home they come over to visit.  I live in Jersey.  I am Eric.  This is my Naked Blog….

E