I hear the clock ticking. Tick tock. Did i ever tell you about the time I got a tick stuck on my ear? And I was playing in this warehouse by where we lived. I was about 7. And this man who was always around thought it an earring. Yeah I kind of freaked when I realized it was a tick…trick rock…I feel the clock ticking…
I vaguely remember a time…Before it all went to hell…before all the rage, the anger, the sadness…before cancer. Before everything. Before it all went to shit. Honestly, I’m tired of feeling mad and the madness is swallowing me faster than the cancer. Madness is just another word for fucked.
Im not going to make it. The clock is ticking so loud and I’m frightened that it will run out before I find the right key, frantic though I do hunt for it. I beg for answers. Plead for help. Oh. I know everyone thinks I am just a big whiny baby who never does anything to help herself. I know you don’t believe me when I say that I’ve tried. It hurts when I think of how many people I’ve managed to somehow piss off, offend, diss, or unnerve of late. I hurt. I ache.
I’m exhausted. The voices inside of my head never tire of pawing at me, the eternal toy mouse, never really alive, so never quite capable of dying merely as escape from the cruel claws, tearing, tearing, tearing. It’s all so much, and right now I am barely surviving. I am get-this-done and try-not-to-kill-myself and pretend-not-to-be-sad and remember-the-appointments. It isn’t as easy as you think.
Everything feels wavy. So close this time… I would hate to leave without saying goodbye. Though I’m certain not a soul would truly miss me. I am truly such an evil tongued bitch. My children are young – theyll recover. And lets be real. I wont be around to see them grow up anyway. Whats few more months…a year.
It won’t matter, it doesn’t now and it won’t, then, either. I’m a – fuck if I know what. I know, for one thing, that there are only a few people in this whole world I care about, and I know they’ll be better off without me.
I’m tired. I’m so impatient. So cranky. So bitchy. So tired. So tiresome. And the things I do that are good are so few. I hate. I hate myself for being so weak. I hate my hatred.
I’m tired of everything. I won’t write the thing that I have inside me that might be good but isn’t worth sticking around for just so I can bear out the obvious foregone conclusion where I never do anything that amounts to anything. I’m tired of being a failure.