I’ve been with thousands of men, again and again,
they promise the moon.
They give you Byron and Shelley then jump on your belly
and bust your balloon.
I’m so tired. Tired of playing the game.
Ain’t in a crying shame? That I’m … so…. tired….
Warning. Bitching ahead.
Letter to Self: Get Stuffed
I’m tired. Like really really tired.
Dissatisfied. And cranky.
Are you about to unleash ye olde period again?
Because I feel like tossing us under a bus. (Again!)
I want a vacation from my life, from my kid, but most of all, from You (me?)
I’m tired of being neurotic, obsessive, compulsive, impulsive and us in general.
Can we dissolve our partnership?
Because my mind, my heart, my soul and my body makes me want to puke.
(Mainly my mind and mainly my body, but you’re all on my shit list.)
I’m sick of being confused. I am too old to be fucking confused.
People are confused when they’re 15. I have not been 15 for so fucking long, it’s a joke.
I hate the feeling of going in circles, taking one step forward and two back, or two left and then two right. Waking up and being in the same damn place.
I wish I could be satisfied, but that would involve perfection and perfection is not possible. I’m tired of being in love with things that are not real; of possessing the things that I think would make many people happy and not being satisfied nonetheless. Can I wake up not wanting shit anymore?
Do I have to become a Buddhist?
Do I have to be in a life-altering accident or find out I have a rare and deadly cancer of the butthole that is 99.9 percent fatal, to finally appreciate my remaining days?
I am not a materialistic person. My threads mainly still hail from the early 2000s; my phone could soon be placed into a tech museum as a stuffed specimen of an extinct species that once blazed a trail for modern communication technology. I don’t want a car, I don’t want a house, I don’t want a ‘perfect family’, I don’t want a fucking llama farm, I don’t want fame and bitches, (okay, I’d maybe take bitches, but fuck the fame)… I don’t want things, and yet I feel guilty, because I am wanting stuff all the time. What? What? God only knows, because I sure as hell don’t. For once, I understand my kid perfectly: He stands by my feet and cries–I pick him up. He squirms to be put down, and starts bawling as soon as his little bum is on the floor, reaching his hands out in a plaintive ‘lift me up’. That’s how I know he’s mine and not the postman’s! Indecision runs in the family!!
More and more, I am taken with the idea of fixing my outside to look like my inside, but what is inside, exactly? It’s chaotic. Might as well cut off my ear and sew it onto my ass for all the good that would do.
It’s so silly, like drowning in a bathtub of water.