First hours of the first day of the year and here I am,
Awake. Reluctant. Aroused.
It's the conversations I have with myself that worry me; I can't decide if they're healthy or a sign of what's to come.
I have these fantasies, perhaps delusions of grandeur, that keep me awake- I feel sick but all together I feel...normal?
Who the fuck knows.
I wan't weak men to stop leaning on me for support, I can't help you. I don't want to help you.
I'm freaking out. I'm freaking out?
In between the lucid dreams I manipulate in which we are in close quarters I imagine touching the live wires in the fuse box. Between the conversations of what is on the menu and whatever the fuck you're doing in your own fucking life I google "exit bag" and dream up ways I can go without putting up too much of a fuss.
In the act of suicide does one become painfully aware of the boredom that's drawn them there?
When does the panic set in?
For the record I'm not suicidal, I'm just bored.
And morbidly curious.
When I was young my mother told me never to touch a lightbulb when I was wet. When I was young I deliberately touched a lightbulb when I was wet, When I was young I was electrocuted.
Here I am.
Frustrated, frantic, furious.
I didn't imagine this, you fuck.
You fucking piece of mind fucking shit fuck. I hate you, I want to hate you. Please hate me too.
I'm ridden with guilty feelings tinged with jealousy. I am mad at myself for even thinking, dreaming, inventing scenarios that would not, could not materialize.
More so I'm off put by my own aversion to long term commitment, largely due to a pattern of disappointment by innumerable faceless suitors. All first names, identified by an article of clothing or choice of music, just a file in a cabinet- collecting dust.
god dammit.
At least there's porn.
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