People collect all sorts of things, shoes and cars and tchotchkes galore. Some collect people and experiences, harboring little prisons and checklists in their hungry little hearts. I harbor grudges, keep vintage grievances ready to infuriate me at the least recollection. That and the dust and moss that sedentary stones and slow broken husks are prone to. The illnesses are taking more of a toll each day, but they aren’t moving fast enough. Most people would do the world a service by blowing their brains out. Me, I ought to get paid to do it.
If the last year taught me anything, it’s to not trust anyone. Not anyone in public life, not anyone to do their job correctly, not anyone who goes out of their way to seek me out. The amount of people out there living in the thick of lies meant to conceal their poor behavior and extoll their facade, even to the point of self delusion is heartbreaking. And it’s particularly exhausting, between all the self actualizing horse shit and the pointless lying that people engage in with reckless inconsistency and no accountability to listen to any discourse. It’s all shitheels and fuckheads, with a few trash fires tossed in for the atmosphere. Me, I should have been dead for decades.
Rain took the day, the cold tied it off, and depression and diabetes cut it off at the knees. I only ever dig in deeper it seems. At best I just keep distracting myself, pretty sights and shiny things. At worst I delve into hard facts, the sort of truths that don’t do a body one damn bit of good. Another birthday coming up, and all I want that I can have is to not live long enough to see it. Nothing to look forward to, just poverty and piss buckets and living with people I would just as soon never see again. The attrition is all I can count on. It’s the sort of worse that keeps going once it gets started. The laughs just keep coming once the joke is you. Me, I got a million of em. Pray we never meet.