For people who kill themselves

We’ve had our share of troubles; gut ache, best friends. I will not try to be positive because it’s just as intolerable. I’ve come to grasp intellectually that some humans inherently and ungratefully can discern between horror movies and reality. I have wondered how a bed wetter goes from being unable to able, and the evil from bad to good though all I really have is there word.

I haven’t been taking the aspirin. I figured through self deception that as I mostly, actually sometimes eat well, that plaque wouldn’t adhere to the aortic stent, break off and lodge in my brain. Raised blood sugar is on the rowing team with thrombis and here I am by the river with a car full of melting moments.

Trouble eating is a great marketing tool for juicers. Spinach is like an eraser for yesterday but you can’t rub out dermatitis. Skin is king, you can’t make up with bulemic tricks.

I threw a tantrum earlier deciding that life had nothing to offer me and I was going to sit on my mattress until I’d gotten to the root of why the world thinks I’m bad with my hands. You know, I muted the phone then turned off the phone then punched the floor then set up the camera to record me punching the floor and knew in my heart that I’d figure it out relaxing at the bakery.

Everything’s good again. The fisherman is pissing in the bush, cockatoos are playing, my sister got a tattoo gun and I’ve been to 3 life drawing classes in a row.