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variations on a theme
I'm not going to write you letters on my unique stationery, no matter how much I would like to. The pages will remain blank and stay forever in their lovely box. When I die they will find all those unwritten letters and publish them into non-sequential novellas that won't make a dime. No one is into subtitles nowadays.
I won't be sending you my favorite book wrapped up in corduroy fabric, even though it's a shame no one will read it ever again. No holiday cards that say thanks for fucking nothing. No satanbucks gift cards. No text messages. No telephone calls. Your cell phone is threatening to become smarter than you are.
You should read someone else's palms. It'd do you good and be good for a laugh. If I had to shake you awake after a good time to get a ride back to such and such a place, what would Sunday dinner be like? The Donna Reed image you have in your Midwestern brain is diseased. I don't own a pair of high heels and the only pearl I have is black. You could definitely use a solid meal but I'd choke on the humble pie and decaf coffee gives me a rash.
I can't believe all the rotten mistakes I've made for the sake of getting high. But it makes for some interesting reading. I am thankful, through it all, that I am not back at the insurance company spinning microfiche and drinking bleach. I quit over tennis shoes and walked out the door to fashion myself a string of lies decades long dedicated to emotional excess and physical deprivation, that I can now wear like prayer beads and brag about like merit badges. When I was a Girl Scout, I cheated on every single one I ever earned.
I wish I could join your little rehabilitation clique and chat about that pseudo-science known as psychology but I think I'd rather take a vacation to Syria. The bombed out buildings of what you people call a life might make for some interesting urban adventures, but I wouldn't want to live there. You can't wait to get out of a meeting so you can get your ice cream. Just because it's legal doesn't mean it's healthy or healing or helping you at all. A regimented fabrication of abstinence will not work on my misfiring brain. It's just a matter of finding the right plug in for the addiction center and replacing the negative behavior with a less negative one. Taking a double dose of yellows and blues twice a day does not give you some right to make me feel guilty for taking advantage of previously agreed upon concessions made before the almighty.
The only positive I know about lasts about fifteen seconds and then never comes again. You act like you'd like to get to know me better but then do everything you can to keep the doors and windows of your little straw house locked tight. It's funny that in this role I get to be the Big Bag Wolf. The punchline is, those cookies your mom sent to grandma were pure poison, so by eating them I really did your family a big favor.
Sure I'd like to get to know you better too, but on a purely temporary basis. I'm not accepting applications for any positions right now except the obvious. Why whisper in your ear when I can stick my tongue in there instead. You should be ashamed at how you carry on. I'm so-called crazy, but what's your excuse?
If you'd just say what you mean, all of this could be avoided. I have no secrets from the people in life that really matter. The squirrels in my yard know me better than you ever will.
11:25 AM - Wednesday, Feb. 28, 2018
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