2016-03-10 | 7:39 p.m.
On this, the tenth of third of 16, I rise again... from the couch.
when some phone kilt itself to Hades, I watched many muse and writing and scribbled shit lost into the energies, or wherever information and technology go to die.
divorced, depressed, roiled in angry apathy, sliming through each day- "will find a place to live?" "will I get laid again?"
through slinging in single to weird relationship things to serious move-in type grabbing and holding and stuck and lonely till 3 months celebate and a black eye.
you never know, I always told myself.
boy was I always right.
So 31 now. A good 16 years since I started this random posting to an audience primarily of my future self.
to my young self, beg for assurance from a future me is cruelty ironic, as not only can I still not promise it, but I look to every entry, 1 or 3 or 10 years old to remind me of who I am, not just was.
in between to crippling avalanches of depression and anxiety.
in between the months and years where I moved into life and got caught up in the movie instead of watching, guiding and typing.
dear me, 1, 4, 10, hell even 15 years ago:
I don't know...
I don't know...
better, worse, both, all
those scars heal and newr, bigger, longer ones...
30? 29? keep writing, go to the doctor now, it might better sooner
no babe, no babies
young me, I'm on a couch, a little stoned.
a jug of water, a cup of cookie dough
TV shows, but in a house
alone but still loved
you will made to feel worthless, all the way till-
bruises heal, the blood in my mouth is just a reminder
vengeance and love and poems about walls that keep you out or in... coughing up the tar, lighting fires and breaking bread.
work on your management skills