For those of you who are old farts like me, you may recognize that line as coming from a song. “Last Caress” was (as far as I know, though I could be wrong) originally done by The Misfits, and has had covers by both Danzig (which isn’t really a cover so much as a rebranding, sorta like when Phil Collins performs a Genesis song or Annie Lennox covers the Eurythmics) and Metallica. It’s an interesting song, and one that’s would probably not be considered okay at all by today’s standards. But as the song says, “doesn’t matter much to me.”
What does matter to me is the fear that anything you say can and will be used against you. So while I do have things to say, I feel I can’t say them out of fear. I’m told I’m not allowed to say them due to who I am. I’m told I’m wrong, because “reasons.” I’m told it’s good that I’m afraid, because I am inherently the enemy and I should be running scared.
I’m told my writing can’t even have a whiff of those things, regardless of who says it or why it’s there, for the same reasons. I can’t have a black character because I’m not black (but by the same token, I can’t not have a black character, because then I’m racist.) I can’t have a character who’s homophobic, because that means I’m homophobic. I can’t have someone who’s violent, uses drugs (including caffeine, nicotine, or alcohol) or holds controversial opinions because somehow that’s going to encourage people to do those things in real life. Can’t bring up self-harm, suicide, depression, anxiety or schizophrenia, because that might upset someone who suffers from such things (despite being a self-harming, depressed schizophreniac who has attempted suicide) and might make their condition worse. Can’t have police characters who are genuinely trying to help and do their job, because that’s a lie and triggers all the “blue man bad” types, and can’t have one who’s dirty or vile because that gives people PTSD flashbacks of all their bad experiences with the police.
All I hear any more is about the things I can’t do, that I shouldn’t do, that will get me “cancelled,” or that will summon the high overlord Twitterati to haunt me if I do them.
And it works. I gnaw my nails, I fret over every word I type or say or Tweet. I have to break my brain into the most bizarre logic channels possible to contemplate how someone could take offense at any of it, and even then there’s liable to be some bizarre contortion or cherry-picking that will still make it hate speech. It may take years, and it might require the invention of some new gender, racial description, sexuality or social class, but it’ll happen eventually. And because I happen to be a white, cishet, male, any infraction, regardless of the attitudes of the time, regardless of the circumstances, regardless of the context, regardless of how long ago, regardless of it being fiction or fact, hell, regardless if it actually happened or not, will call the horde and render me guilty before I even have time to blink.
I’ve got somethin’ to say, but it doesn’t matter much to me, and I might as well be dead. That’s what it feels like.
When I was younger and had the chicken pox, my parents resorted to the method of duct-taping my hands shut and bathing me in caladryl to keep me from scratching. That’s what it feels like, only instead of scratching, it’s to stop me from typing. Some folks would probably consider that a win. After all, by my very nature, I’m the enemy. As noted above, I’m white, cishet, and male. I also used to be a heavy smoker, am a LaVeyan Satanist, and before the dream was crushed and my body started to fail, wanted to pursue a career in law enforcement. I like things that go “boom” and “bang,” even though I do think some better regulations should be instituted (regulations that would, in all likelihood, prevent me from owning anything that goes “boom” and “bang,” but that’s fair. I wouldn’t trust me with a gun, either.) I think slippery slopes are a real concern, that diversity and identity politics have gone off the rails, that not every abuse accusation is true, not every cop is your enemy, and that rules and laws should apply equally to everyone. I am almost quite literally Satan to a lot of these folks, dripping with privilege and conservatism so caustic that breathing the same air as me is liable to cause strokes, kill puppies, and rot nearby plant life.
Ironically, I used to be pretty liberal, very live and let live, very much in favor of “let’s talk about it.” I don’t think I’ve changed all that much. I think the people I used to identify with did. Thinking or saying that is a great way to be branded as an alt-right Nazi, though. It happens often enough; I was told I’m an alt-right Satanist today, which is apparently something worse than either of those things on their own, and got back “if you have to ask” when I asked what the hell that actually meant.
I’m sure quite a few folks who’ve made it this far in the post have already unsubscribed, or are Tweeting “what an asshole this guy is” to their echo chambers. That’s fine. I’m getting kind of tired of being fearful. I have a lot of other problems to worry about, and the potential to be “canceled” or have some Antifa wannabe hucking rocks at my window, my truck, or my person is starting to take a back burner to my lungs and heart rotting away while I bankrupt myself and my girlfriend trying to get a final, conclusive diagnosis so someone can do something or I can claim the disability benefits that I’ve been paying for since I was 13 and got my first job. Being paranoid is only another stressor that raises my heart rate, increases my nicotine and caffeine consumption, and makes it harder to do anything that might actually help with my depression symptoms.
So I’m gonna stop doing it. Screw ’em. I’m going to do what I want, and say what I want, and write what I want to. Because it doesn’t matter; honestly, I’m not liable to last a whole lot longer anyway. I may not live long enough to be shipped off to a gulag, banned from Twitter, have my books burned or be drowned in false accusations from folks I’ve never met. Sad that such thinking is positive, but that’s what things have come to.
Before I drop my final line, I’d like to remind anyone who’s still reading and hasn’t decided I need to die already that I have a Patreon, where you can chip in if you think I say or write or play anything that interests you, and a GoFundMe for trying to get the surgery the doctors say might prolong my existence for a while longer. If you want to click or contribute, great; if not, it’s okay. No hard feelings.
So I’ll leave you with this: The actual line from that song up there:
“I’ve got something to say. I killed your baby today. It doesn’t matter much to me, as long as it’s dead.”
Told you it was offensive, and wouldn’t fly today. Like a lot of the music from my youth, really. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go work on Lune de Amant, because I no longer care if it’s racist, cultural appropriation, or some other stupid thing. Marie Laveaux has a trio of cranky werewolves to deal with, and she’s going to, goddamn it.
Insomniac Nightmares 
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