Tuesday, January 13, 2009

despite bottled relief, relief has been slow in coming. I won't name the quantity I've taken in an attempt to curb the pain I've had today, but it's been a lot. A LOT. And still . . . STILL . . . the stalker that never sleeps.

And I need to get to sleep. I have to get up in 7 hours, which would normally in someone's normal world wouldn't be such a big deal, but for me--either no sleep or MUCH sleep--who knows what it'll be tonight. I'm not tired. I spent too much time with Madame Bovary, over 5 hours, and then suddenly it was almost midnight and I hadn't packed and I have to leave early in the morning and wake up earlier than that to call my electrician and get ready for my trip to Rutherford. AND shit god damn I need to get directions. I wish Minnie would let me drive my car so I could just use my GPS. And so I could smoke. And listen to my music. And use less gas. But oh well. WE COULD, but she just...she thinks her wheelchair is only properly suited for her vehicle. And I forgot to cancel our dinner reservations. Maybe we'll keep them. Whatever.

BUT THIS . . . PAIN . . . OF MINE . . . ceaseless, relentless, overwhelming, constant, closer than my shadow, suffocating every thought in my head, pulling my strings to and fro, this master puppeteer coils its strings noose-like to drag me uselessly behind through this ghost I call life, mammoth phantom-me, the ultimate undesirable, as its been made so plain in so many ways from so many sources.


The validity of my existence expired years ago.
Like a fucking pizza-place coupon you find stuffed in the creases of your couch with loose change.
What's the culmination of my legacy to be?
Lists of complaints: read on . . .

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