Sporks and Skorts

Forgive me but fuck this.
Shit talking all morning, mad at my employer and her employer too, mad at the weather and the fact that I left my fucking back window down and a torrential downpour made my car smell sweaty and fat and there is nothing worse in this world than being disgustingly fat like we have no control over what we put into our faces and often times, we don’t because we listen to everything that comes into our heads from every medium about who we are and what is right for us and we stopped thinking so long ago, if we ever did at all, if we ever have, there really is no proof of it and I am asleep on my feet yet wide awake and wired for nothing at all and then I am swallowed by the exhaustion of living every time I pause.
Messy as fuck.
Forgive me but fuck that. Shit talking all afternoon, ready to be at home to just be alone and mad at the world and the people in it including yours truly. World full of whores.
Who the fuck is running around in circles upstairs? All I hear is little feet. All I hear is complaining. All I hear is confusion. All I hear is hate. Because there is nothing else. All of our niceties, all of our kindness, all of our thoughtfulness and courage, are ice cream sprinkles. They are all lies. We are monsters. Devious wicked parasites and what does it say about me that I believe that? Does it say that I am jaded? Have I met anyone who wasn’t a whore?
Does it say that I’m pessimistic? Does it say that I am bitter and bruised and stupid? Who ever answers has no answers, they are monkey men just the same as me, with no concept of life and how it has come to be the trash can that it is other than the ones that we created out of desperation for a little kiss from meaning, with no options other than the ones that we have devised for ourselves out of comical bullshit, lace and arrogance.
So fucking messy.
I don’t want to kiss anyone else but him and it’s so painful. Its deliciously painful. Its wicked and I’m addicted. I hate that so therefore I hate me.
Forgive me but fuck him. I am yet another arrogant buffoon struggling with work and with weather and with men and with myself.
Shit talking all evening like somebody paid me today to do it.
I’m not upset. I’m not jealous. I’m not weak. I’m just tired.
I’m just tired, I promise. That is all that it is. I might be a whore though.
I just want him to love me and I can’t make him. I’m exhausted.
I just want the world to be the pretty place we pretend that it is and I’m pooped.
I just want meritocracy to be a real thing and I know that it isn’t and I’m bummed.
I’m lonely.
Shit talking forever.
I’m crazy.
Shit talking forever.
I’m cosmic.
Couldn’t get more messy if I tried and I try, I have tried, I am trying.
Shit talking forever.
Fuck.
I’m a figment of my own imagination.
Just shit. I’m lazy and horny and foolish and whorish.
Stop me from fighting me if you can.
Stop the anguish that I feel when I look at my own reflection.
Promise me that I exist. That I am valuable. That I matter and count. That I’m worth any time spent, any money owed, any breath exhaled.
Promise. Is my messiness showing?
Even though I know its just shit talking and not true at all. Never was. Never will be.

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