Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Open Letter to the Ineffable Un-Thing (or, Pep-talk to Self vis-à-vis Death, so-called)

Get in the sea already.
Okay, seriously. I'm getting tired of your face. It's not even a face. You have no nose. You give the impression that you have an eye but that is only because I have painted you that way so that I can stare you down. It's an effect of lighting or something, you radiant skeleton, you stereotypical representation of that what is actually a void, a nothing. Not even a space - just nothing in which there is no breath and no sight and no corporeal presence. I have no interest in negotiating with you because your terms suck and I find you boring. Boring. You have hurled an abhorrently boring experience at me and it wears me down, yes. I am made of pits, I wail, I cry, I have hairline cracks in my tooth enamel from the solid jaw clench that has replaced what used to be bruxism but has come to a literal standstill. I am crushing my own teeth, not only at night but in daylight. I do not appreciate rotting teeth. I do not appreciate anything that makes my lipstick look like crap, as it invariably does anyway.

Paraben glamour defect made visible during rising storm of fuck-you.

And seriously, I am tired of anger and sadness and shoulder shrugging, as if chance had anything to do with anything. Shall we dance together beneath the wheels of a bus as readily as we might through the experience of brain rot? Will it be omas of skin or throat resulting from the massive quantities of pesticides I have been exposed to in the last couple of year (((those bugs had to go, dude. I thought perhaps that oblation might have appeased you, but it seems to have strengthened your resolve to tackle me. Or perhaps it added to the acceleration of the bubblegum dustbunny's growth, in which case I call foul again. The choice is this, or this. Nothing or nothing))). The luxury of choosing is something I can only hope for.  

Not interested.

I am tired of writing to you now and I am going to stare gormlessly into the middle distance where you are not. Hang out on my shoulders and cripple me for however long - I can stretch you out with a good downward-facing dog. In the meantime, I refuse to sustain fatal injury from my upcoming treatments against the motherfucker in my brain, so you can forget about swallowing my existence in the near future. I have things to do and people to see, and every time you call I will make excuses as to why I can't come out. Usually I will be washing my hair. See you later later later later later and whatever whatever.

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