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purgatory is scratchy like polyester
I'm not stupid enough to think you were the answer to any problem, but I am sick of thinking of you every time I brush my teeth.
And it pisses me off you think you're so fucking special you get to disappear. Everyone always takes the next exit and I am really fed up with it. Fuck you all. I feel like a totally pathetic loser.
I think about everything that was said and I wonder how much of it you even remember. I know I have been guilty of taking the advantage of being so chemically altered that I say things I always wanted to say, but didn't have the nerve to otherwise. Then you just write it off to the drugs later on.
No one wants to have the guilt of thinking they were the cause of something so seemingly wrong as breaking up a marriage or killing someone. Divorce is like a death of sorts. Does that make adultery a murder?
Even those people that I think have their minds outside the little boxes are penned in tight with all those biblical standards of right or wrong. I am not some immoral demon hell-bent on destroying the very fabric of our existence, but I've been treated like that.
You do some things once, and that's who you are forever. You make a choice to shoot up just once and now you're a junkie for life.
Et cetera. Et cetera. Too bad so sad.
I was filling the watering cans the other morning to water the seedlings and I suddenly, out of nowhere, thought to myself, how long is this going to last? Playing this game of house. I wonder if I have never fit in because I'm not supposed to be here. Just like people like me aren't supposed to have diamonds, maybe people like me aren't supposed to be living inside or having good food to eat or planting trees. Maybe I am supposed to be some sort of junkie psycho guttertrash slut or something. I know the irony of this, but I really want to get fucked up. This is limbo and it feels like it and it's scratchy
And then all those thoughts all went away and I went on with my day. And I keep going on with my days and there's no one to run this by or to even just say it out loud to make it go away.
The works of great female artists in history are so few and far between because us women are always taking care of the shitheads that get all the credit.
You move the clock from the kitchen to the living room but it doesn't fucking matter. It's still spinning out of your control. Even if the battery wears down, time still moves on. It's just a representation of you being fucked no matter what you do.
Doesn't matter, living inside with someone or outside with other people or being in an empty parking ramp all alone. Doesn't matter what way home you take, take the long way or a short cut. You're going to the same destination, even if it's not the same place.
It's maddening.
3:23 PM - Sunday, May. 02, 2021
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