Take This Sinking Boat and Point It Home (New Post, Same Shit)

Just what this blog needed: tits. Good ones, I mean. I needed something to take the attention off my written. Word. Trying to lighten the mood, so you don't take no notice of this; its just the widow outside my window. A vicious kind of web in my head. I'll write real small so you don't have to read if you don't want to.

What have I become? Got Baby blues, and I'm not talking about PPD or FAS. Someone who entertains the idea of undergoing some of the more unorthodox and curious elective surgical procedures. Elective - ha. Just because a bad hip isn't life-threatening, doesn't mean you aren't gimpy. I wish I had a powerful drug addiction or just a drug addiction, period, so I could destroy myself properly. Because dining on buttered ego noodles and sipping on a pervasive self-loathing is such an embarrassing way to go. No fatal face fracture vis-a-vis trying to kiss a spotted eagle ray at 25 mph, that's for sure.

My thoughts of being someone's way to love are so pathetic and I hate it when my notes turn into cliches. It wears me out and my feelings are flat. And in the light of day, I try to comb my worries and fix my thoughts and I am reminded that I'm not Sundanese and that when I turn on my tap, I can trust that the water that comes out won't kill me. How small of me to disremember this. But somehow, knowing this doesn't solve all of my problems.