06 January 2014

Smoke. Xanax. Repeat.

I don't want to be here.

I don't want to have a nice night with you.

I want to go to bed and cook in a two-foot-deep layer of blankets.

I want to brew a cup of black coffee, sit outside in my layer of blankets, smoke.

Fuck optimism, I don't have the energy for it today.

My goal is not to be happy and have a nice night.

You blew it on your computer.

You continued to blow it on your computer no matter how loudly Jack screamed.

You didn't even notice that I wasn't hearing him scream until I finally woke up, because this is how bad I feel, how tired, how freezing cold.

You put him to bed two hours before his bedtime.  Who the fuck is getting up at 5 AM?  Me.

You say "no one will ever love you."  It's a response for you.  It's just something you say when you are pissed off that I am being difficult, or sensible, or both.  You say it like it's one word.


I know.

I know.

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