I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. When I do get up, I cry and think about how miserable I am, which makes me cry more. I sit on the toilet and wish it would swallow me whole. My life is shit. I hate my job. I hate my body. I am fat and have lost interest in exercise. It causes me so much pain with my fractured ankle that I can no longer get any joy from hiking, skiing, or doing any of the activities that I loved to do. My days are filled with work- a job I hate, or when I actually have a day off, I am trying to catch up with dishes or laundry, or errands or driving to places to spend money I don’t have-
I make shit for money. But yet I work 40 hrs. a week. How many more hours must I work to pay my bills, put food on the table, gas in my car, and fix all the broken things in my life. I’ve given up on my body. I might as well have a heart attack. I smoke a pack a day. It’s the only pleasure I derive when I’m at work. The days melt together. The sun might be shinning, but I don’t feel its warmth. All I feel is abandonment, loneliness, self-loathing, and hate. The bitterness consumes me. How did I end up like this? I used to be happy. Until I got my heart crushed. Then I thought I could move on. But nothing has changed in three years. I still obsess over my ex, haven’t dropped a pound, and day in and day out, I slowly die inside. I’m suffocating and nobody can even tell….
No one knows how miserable I am. What’s the point in telling anyone? They will just tsk tsk me and shake their head and offer sagely advice about getting counseling or something like that…. Counseling for what? That my life sucks? That I need to pull up my bootstraps and get my shit together?
For what- to impress the walls of my apartment? As long as my dog gets fed and the cat has food, there are no other demands and the pets won’t last forever. GREAT! Another depressing thought-
Will someone please just take me out of my misery? When I get home at night- it is my only happiness. I get home, take off my tight fitting clothes. Put on my bathrobe. Smoke some pot. And drown my unhappiness in a glass of wine. I eat food, which is another comfort. But everything has calories and fat. The dirty dishes in the sink pile up and I head to bed crying. This is my life. It sucks. And I wish it would end.
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Unless you smoke those dumbass indian cigarettes, like, Spirit, that are 3 bucks a pack, but even then that's 90 bucks a month in your pocket if you quit...and I hate those fucking indian cigs. They taste like buffalo shit and I think the indians are putting smallpox in them because one time I bought a pack from this guy Joe who was an indian, and his name, oddly enough, was actully Indian Joe on his driver license. Anyway, I smoked the pack and got shithoused and fell into Indian Joe's ivy patch in the back. next morning I woke up with these little bumps that itched like a motherfucker...
GODDAMN INDIAN JOE GAVE ME SMALLPOX!!! I said to myself, so i went in and beat the living shit out of Indian Joe. I hit him so hard that the "E" fell off his name and now he had to change his driver license to Indian Jo , and no one knows if he's male or female. He's like the "pat" of indians.
Goddamn spirit cigarettes.
anyway...go fuck yourself please. Have an extra helping of steaming truds while you're at it, fatass.
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