suicide hotline
-Prelude-
Death’s Time of Year
Right now writing is laborious. A complete waste of time and short circuited mental energy. i’m wondering why don’t I give up this gig and go with what I know? Namely clerking at Dairy Mart for the rest of my life. I should scrap the pen and paper, save a tree, and go lay on the railroad tracks down the street from my house.
So i’m back from San Francisco. What’s got me down?
Aren’t I ever happy? Well considering that in 23 years my life has amounted to less than a pile of shit...No. Happiness at this point would not only be absurd but a sign of an absolute mental deficiency. My great uncle is dying of cancer, i’m surrounded by crack heads, and my life is a rotary of the Ireland Cancer Center and feeding my uncle through a fucking tube. The bedroom I once had is now the equivalent of a nurses station...given that I live with a bunch of delusive drunks and drug addicts...all responsibility for my uncles well being until his demise is in my hands.
Frankly, i’d rather be back in San Francisco sucking off my ‘whatever the fuck he is’ and listening to the petty idealist bullshit of people who think they know what suffering is...than be in this hell...and I can only imagine what my uncle must feel like.
i’ve got a bottle of rum. i’m now drinking. It’s either that or tapping into the liquid morphine for some temporary comfort, and believe me all comfort is temporary.
I had no intention of writing a Suicide Hotline for this month, because frankly, at this stage in the game, I couldn’t give a fuck less about it...Oh yeah, and my Grandmother has Alzheimer, and has no clue as to what the fuck is going on. It’s cute when she repeatedly asks what day it is, when the rent is due, if my uncle is sick (although he’s basically dying in the room right next to her...she only remembers that for about ten minutes).
So once again, i’m left blaming my birth into a clan of morons.
Regardless of how much I bitch about being robbed of life...and let’s face it...not many people on the verge of 23 have these extensive shackles of responsibility wrapped around their necks...I’m of better moral ground to up and leave this situation. The problem is...I’d be much better off
without these fucks, but they need me. And here I am, bound to the will of fortune wondering when i’ll finally say enough is enough and turn back into a full blown fucking junkie. On the weekends, i’m lucky if I get 12 hours of sleep between friday and sunday. I can’t save any money because it all goes towards my piece of shit car which I need to transport my uncle back and forth from the jaws of hell.
I really don’t want to write anymore because I don’t see the point. So i’m not going to. Maybe next month will be better, although I know it will be worse.
AnnieM