who the fuck even knows
A bottle of rum; a bottle of bourbon; a $647 ticket; a mallet; a crowbar; a fine of as of yet unknown quantities for putting busted up living room decor in the dump; a bitter, explosive, unexpected, and heart-rending break-up; at least one breakdown; and about $1,500 in credit debt later, tomorrow I clean the old apartment and relinquish the keys to that shelter forever; tomorrow the move is complete.
Edging this close to the new year I felt it necessary to pack in just a few more regrets, I suppose.
This morning I thought, “I don’t know who I am or where I am, but I know I’m wrong.”
In the nuthouse we like to call that an Old Message.
I’m toxic. I’m worthless. I’m pathetic and despicable. I am unnecessary and expendable. I am Wrong and Unwanted.
I ache with these old thoughts like a heartbeat; I pulse with them; I can barely breathe.
I wonder if this was the hurricane Llyncilla warned me was coming.
It’s all fucking stirred up, folks!
Oddly, out of keeping with this trigger fuck-fest of ill-timed implosions, I feel hopeful. But that might just be the relief of my perpetual sense of impending doom now being in actual real-time resonance with lived emergency. So much less cognitive dissonance when the sky really is fucking falling, hey Chicken Little?
FUCK. Fuck. Who the fuck even knows. One thing that is certain? My goddamn living room looks fabulous.