Problematic

Pain floats. Aches travel streams of nerves, through muscle, and bone with no known origin. It will disappear just as mysteriously. Maybe it's because I haven't had much to eat. It's probably stress. It could be boredom. I would not put it past the tissue and marrow to revolt for no better reason than a lack of appreciation and entertainment. They never get any exercise. They're frequently torn and held in poor positions. I can't fault them. I smell peanut butter. I'm pretty sure that's the first sign of a stroke. Maybe I should have taken the stronger anxiety pills. ***************************** Every day I say that the next day I will do better. I make a little promise that I know I will break. The next day is never different. The next day I do not do better. The next day is very similar to the day before and I am inevitably in my underwear eating spoonfuls of Nutella like an Onion article. I play Tinder roulette with no intention of talking to anyone

Sad people listen to sad music. It's fun to wallow. It's cathartic. Contrapoints went over this recently. I don't remember what she said because I have a very bad memory and I miss the point for the aesthetic. I mostly remember her singing Hello Darkness My Old Friend. I don't think she actually discussed sad people and sad music in depth...but like I said, I'm shallow and I'm in it for the lewk. I wasn't that into the lewk this episode, so I remember even less. So much of this is half-jokes to make myself seem desperately unappealing, you know. I find myself wholly unappealing and this is just one long unnecessary advertisement making the case for that fact. In essence. There's other stuff, sure, but at the end of the day it's a story about cannibalism and suicide through the coercion of a lover into drowning me. If I were more literate it would be all angst and ultraviolence. Drink the milk and kill, children, because our rich daddies don't

The streets are well traveled. They are uneven, cracked and breaking. I wonder if I can claim to be well traveled in a sense, at least to explain the cracks in my personality. The streets have tried to withstand the weight of cars and heavy trucks that they were never intended to hold. Great semi-trailers have to weave into neighborhoods. The streets were only ever intended for the weight of residential vehicles. The cars, the bikes, the children playing, the strays. The wearing is filled with inadequate material. Something dark and less substantial than the original asphalt, even though it's similar. Like a shattered teacup, the streets can never come back together. It can only hope to be repaved completely some day, but then it will not be itself. My nails are still dyed purple. The sink and shower match. My hair does, to an extent. I'm curious about whether it will fade in a way that I enjoy. It's a practice in patience. I am not prone to practicing patience, or planni

Could someone trace the length of thread that runs through our family connecting us to the fiends inside? It does not exist within the entire tapestry. The curse wanders not far, but not to us all. If the worth of a life is the stories that stay behind and the memories transferred our particular segment is working to make that track of that thread worthless. The problem is, if my sister and I are forgotten and our mother, too, my mother's mother will still be attached to others. My mother's mother could live on well past us. A mother who completed another cycle of abandonment after her own mother left her when she was a child. My mother was one of five. She's not the oldest, and she's not the youngest. I am not sure exactly where she falls. She and her three sisters and one brother grew up mostly in the periphery of her aunts. To say that they were under their care would be a stretch. Her aunts worked. One had 14 children of her own. The other could possibly have ma

A grey-haired man with an uneven stride walks purposefully down the middle of a quiet street. He carries a small bouquet flowers the same red-orange color as his shirt. He generates a rift in nature, in time and reality. A soft blur, similar to a fog, trails him as he makes quick, confident, fluctuating steps. He has reversed his direction, and there is no clear indication of his way. We separate at a stop light. I, to buy yogurt, and he to his destiny. I've been trying to write more descriptively. Let's be honest: I threw up in the hot tub. I think we could all assume, but I wanted to be direct. I didn't want you to think I was hiding anything from you. At least, I didn't want to waste what I was hiding on that factoid. It was almost all Oreos, I think. And the tub had been emptied, so it wasn't so much gross as sensible. At least that's how Maeve has spun it for me. She and Ryan thought it was pretty amusing. "Of course you would throw up in the big