Annihilate Me.

That's what I need, from you, for you, to do, to me, in my personaldebasementfantasyworld. Because I'll just keep getting back up and coming back stronger than before like a pacman on its third life and I need put in my place, the way my Springer used to do to my Sheltie; always somehow shocked with the way he would stand over her, baring his teeth, growling low on her neck, menacing, while she cowered, not moving. But we are (moving) like plate tectonics, and I just want to be a million miles from here without having to feel bad about feeling sad. That time of the month: to wit, not a good argument. But it is true, I have less a handle on things. Thing things. My mental black holes and haven't I written this a hundred times? I make money by losing it and I'm not supposed to write this way, but I do. And you do, and we do. You would be surprised what women, as a species, can get over, and maybe shocked about what we can't. I need my delusions shattered and my hope obliterated and you can't even oblige? I am trying to make our lives easier. I need told that I am not as good as it. That I will never be enough. That holding out hope any longer is just further evidence of my naivety and loss of touch with anything resembling reality. That I am exactly what I have always feared I was. Confirm them and I can swallow it and silently grieve it and take that part of myself that self-deceives and put it down, like an old dog. I am begging you. And then I will leave you alone.