Fancy

I hold my gut up now when I wipe my front bottom with toilet paper.

There‘s not enough alcohol in the world to repress what I feel.

I dread feelings. I’m phobic. Yuck

I have had too much alcohol and expressed all of my feelings.

everyone says shut up, how disgusting, how base, how louche. Feeling peasant!

eat dirt base person, mount the dirt like Saltburn.

nobody likes me anymore, grand! all of the people told me I had so much to live for, so much to give.

I don’t care, I am my own self. I derive my self image not from toil or station.

I’ve given my all and now I reach deep into psychic pockets for more destructive confetti to throw around.

Believe me when I tell you, I don’t belong to you, I’m not of you.

I want to die, I give up.

Broke your furniture, set my alight dart into the deep and dark abyss on your carpet with only the smoke to remind me of orthodoxy and ritual.

Please stop asking me to show up. Please don’t ask me to show up with a vision of what I was and then feel sad when the new “new“ me shows up in my bulky, sweaty, uncomfortable body.

this odema is partially your fault. You volunteered me to have my tonsils out because you didn’t want to get sick anymore. The lymph nodes in my armpit “to prevent the cancer”

I can’t be responsible for anyones feelings anymore, that’s boundaries, that’s healthy. I don't have boundaries, I’m a loser, I’m nothing, but I respect yours. I know that there are things that we just don’t talk about. I don’t want to be responsible for your feeling, I’m polite and I want you to feel awful.

Im drinking in secret now because we have strict boundaries. Who are you talking to? Where are you going? Why are you dressed like this? Have you changed your hair? Where is the money you promised to bring home?

I am so ashamed and embarrassed about my drinking problem, and all the bad and debasing choices I’ve made when I’ve been high. I don’t actually care, I chased and encouraged all of the debasement. I just thought it gave me license to kill,

but I bit Candace allessios cheek off fully sober, it’s just me, I’m a bad person.

This other time I made a kid put his finger under the seesaw.

You find my bottles. I make an effort to hide them but before and still I construct a booby trap of clinking glass and no foot space to hide my diary. My sheet. My space.

you all gave me too much credit, all this promise I had, what is this? Where did it go? Why did I never encounter it at the times of my worst? In crushing cruelty of puberty and venturing outside.

how did I never learn to relate to people?

I was a biter, I bit and ate flesh..set up medieval tortures with a seesaw designed to crush and sever fingers, with no recourse? Was this cute? I tortured and killed large and small animals.

a baby is conceived, it’s a miracle and yet with the ambition and trauma stored deep within daddy’s balls and the unfulfilled dreams of the mother, this is the chalky paste of survival of the species.

i opt out.

please, I'm good at sales, my little dog likes me. I cry in movies and Mariah Carey video clips.

just let me die, put me down like a lame horse.

did you say that you were offering me 10k for fancy rehab? Sign me up. I’m sure I’ll be a better person after two weeks!