Delete City

Its not that I, its just that I, I mean, I'm tired, you know? I'm so tired. And its not that there isn't anything to say. There are so many things to so, so many unwarranted opinions to trot out, and not enough angst, not nearly enough, because full is not so heavy as empty, my darling Criminal.

There are things, those things that stick, like those men that speak in slogans, and red Dodge Neons with "Porn Star" stickers on the back commanded by sad nineteen year olds with heavy-handed reddish purple dye jobs; and two occupied child safety seats in the back. And the brilliance and the joy, personified, by a six year old who is trying to figure out her place, and the little men behind big pharma and the quotidian effects of Moody and Fitch junking ResCap and brother bonds, like how am I going to feed and house my family because I only make $130/hr, and nono, is no typo, and what does the Yen surge mean to me, personally? And the burning in my throat from its closing, from its adjuration from my brain, a fear no prescription could heal; one panic attack away from a tracheotomy, from the pressure from an outage that is keeping my childhood memories dim which is keeping from reminding me of the selfishness of my anger over having to tell my child that another two have called it quits because hasn't she faced enough loss and grief and betrayal in her short life and how can I, in good conscience be a sympathizer and ... its just ... some fucking people, you know?

Listen up, boys and girls: do not spend your precious hours scouring the long list of people in your area who are lonely tonight. Not when you have a perfectly capable, albeit sedated, lover in your bed. But I understand, Criminal, I understand; what its like to have things incessantly chirping, ringing, crying, barking, yelling, and kicking: for your attention.

Promise me this: just before you die, insist to yourself that I, your wife, have loved you as completely as one person can love another. And should you outlive me, know that I, who, except for loving you and mothering our children, do not want to be remembered for anything else I have ever done while walking the surface of this abject, despicable, dirtball planet. Not that its the planet, per se.