Mattersome Mind Spatter.

I fucking hate everything. Had my fill of it all. Please don’t take offense, it’s a “me” thing. I’m sure you’re just a peach. Entrenched in my microcosm...I barely even eat anymore. Still, do kindly back off of my biscuits. Who knew fasting brought out latent food aggression? The people who actually have nothing to eat. That’s who.

I inundate myself with words and plots and characters. Futile attempts to push back the tide. Count the grains of sand. Carefree cloud watching...in someone else’s imagination.

My story is not your story. You will never grasp the insanity that pervades and detains me. Possessed by the inexplicable urgency of another self promoting, attention whore cricket, chirping for validation. Cacophonous.

I do feel bad for boot crunched crickets. Animals are never bad. Karen doesn’t need another foot scrub more than that rabbit needs its skin. Leave the fucking bunny alone. Stop killing pitbulls in shelters. It's an ignorant, abhorrent practice. I feel “breed profiled” my damn self. Let’s euthanize me and move on to the next. Maybe you would inject my body with poison, while checking your texts. My discorporation is unremarkable.

Just doing your job, I guess. Isn’t the path of inculpabilty? Did my presence while alive make you ill at ease?

You felt compelled to watch me die? Stiff meat and fixed bones elicit no emotion. Jaded is an understatement.

Asocial. I’d rather recognize myself in the bathroom mirror than drift a dead sea of unfamiliar features. I hate this rattle of chains in my head. If my skin was a window, I’d open it wide, and jump out as if facing spontaneous combustion.

I hate that I’m addicted to anything and everything, consider it faulty programming. My doctor says surely the pills make me better. My doctor talks over me in superlative tones. She has the questions and the answers. I’ll need to find a new doctor. Some things need to be heard. When they need to be heard. Vexing. The direness, subject to blind eyes. Ears that hear keywords only. Clocking hours in the name of psychology and “healing”. Blasphemous. I fucking can’t.

I hate that I’m irretrievably distant when I’m needed close. This smacks my face red, as well as others. It’s not a choice. Cease then your efforts to eat from a fruitless tree. Wantonness skewed your perception. What survives here isn’t safe for consumption, as is. I am a different kind of hungry...panging for solace. We need to buy hay. I hate that dried grass requires a dedicated budget. I love my horses. They’re intractable assholes, but what of it? Better to spend my time with quaripedal assholes. I do not keep anyone’s company. Not for long.

I hate that credit scores exist. Another intangibility to lean on. I’ll use paper money. Credit my left tit.

I feel old. Unarguably older today than yesterday. One day closer to enlightenment. Or so the "wise ones" postulate. It's a jumbled sentence. A garbled song. Cutting one's own flesh seeking sanguine respite, Warm crimson gently pulsing comfort. Mastering those coping skills. Clearly. Where hide the desertive pieces of a discordant puzzle.

Dubious. Rancorous. Arthritic. A mindfucked miser, 37 years in. Not sure what I expected, exactly. I was genetically modified by merlot as I grew with my my mother. Does that explain anything at all?

Not knowing my expiration date is paradoxically liberating oppression. Direction eludes and befuddles...I’m working in simultaneous realms. Detached from each concurrently. Conclusively. I do not despair. I don’t blame the truth. It is simply itself.

I’ll take that book please, you can go fuck your shelf.