A Drunk Ghoul Hanging Out On Sober Forums

The spike on my chart just went up a tick. No longer satisfied with buzzing off websites with information of executions and maximum security facilities, I now find myself hovering in online sober communities. Drink in hand I wade through dozens of desperate posts on the message boards, looking for tragedy in the words.
Pretty things hold no interest to me. If everythings perfect then there's no drama, no reason to stay save briefly bathe in soft light. Beauty gets boring real quick but there are wonderful things in the darkness; honesty, sincerity, compassion, meekness, courage. One never sees these traits beyond the gate of perfection. In candy mansions is where all the playboys and designer oxycontin women hang out and spew their worthless drivel, and these are the sincerely ugly.
Walking throughg labyrinths of shadows among creatures in distress is what does it for me. I do not have thrills from witnessing suffering, more I feed off the atmosphere that chaos creates. In amongst the hoardes of monsters and ghouls one will find real pictures of delight, no plastic culture that is as weak as a sieve.
The inmate in solitary confinement, tearing at his prison jumpsuit, barking at the moon. Or a grieving alcoholic, weeping over a lost lover. This is where the action is, the bungee jump over Cocytus. There is a swagger to the wild man and grace in broken tattooed angels which is not seen in the contented.
So from my perch in front of the computer screen I scroll down searching for rancid stories, seizing them with a quickening pulse in anticipation because the torn are truly elegant.
Trendy Molly pouring her veneered curves into designer dresses and teetering around in the latest Jimmy Choo ankle traps might be to the mutton headed poseurs liking, but poor Moll cannot hold a blowtorch to shrouds or lavender. Death has a style of its own.
The light knots in oak coffin lids, a glint of light on recently brought up intestinal blood and frail cobwebs, crisp with morning dew. Each of these reeks with astonishing beauty. And many more scenes from the pit could join these to form a morbid pageant. Fragments of the dying, grand sea bound jewels that no human could design.
I have no interest in going to a zoo to see the peacock or wild flowers. I appreciate their awesome colours but its too perfect. The shapes and splashes are too neat; so neat in face that they resemble drawings from colouring books and that makes too much sense. There ought to be anarchy in the painter's palette. A wreckless streak distorting the image.
Look at a Spring morning in the country: early sun rising over hills, lambs skipping without care on lush green fields. Grand but at the same time boring. Now add a thunderstorm or two and a fox lurking, weighing the odds on the lamb and the scence becomes infinately more beautiful.
There must be something sinister, or unfortunate on the horizon to satisfy me. Its neither gothic or evil, its just Life with a capital L.