Run-on linguistic relativity of addicted living

I wake and force myself to do things, to make coffee, to take out the trash before the sun comes up, to do jumping jacks and squats and planks, to wash my face before and after I put make up on it, to eat several times a day preferably meals under 400 calories a piece to find a job, to work that job, to be good at that job and keep that job and to have a goal that if I change myself entirely and if I work really hard and kiss all the right ass and get political and go to barbecues and be ruthless and unrelenting yet soft and approachable and diplomatic I’ll get a raise at that job, and to style my hair and to walk 3-5 miles and to pay my taxes, and to text the people I love just in case something happens something positive and to say my mantras and to keep signs up all around my apartment to remind me to not kill myself like stay present and it’s all connected and skulls everywhere you turn and to brush my teeth and to dress and to wash dishes and myself and my clothes and to remember appointments and to sweep every room and to take my vitamins and to pay my bills on time and to put on lotion and to do my dialectical behavior therapy workbook activities and to check my voicemails and emails and to open all the curtains and shut them again at dusk and to make to do lists and mark a line through each item and to re-do the list 5 times a day when it starts to get too sloppy and to sleep which I don’t think I’ve ever actually done at all if I wasn’t drunk and I’m not sure that even counts.

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