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shiny objects

Tuesday, February 22, 2005


Therapists. Curse them one and all. The minute they find out I'm a writer (of sorts), they assume that all my psychic ills can be purged into prose. Just like that.

In reality, I just end up with a pile of angsty scribblings that ammount to nothing, just take up space. Like this one . . .

I can't avoid depression. No matter how hard I smile, no matter how many pills I take, no matter who I sleep with, no matter - despite what every goddamned optimist says - how zealously I sweep the dank refuse from my rankled mind, I will never, never, never, never, NEVER, NEVER! escape.

It's a virus. A part of me. Incorporated into my DNA. It's been with me since birth. It will be the death of me.

It's gonna get me. It's already got me. I'm slipping, falling, cursing, dragged by my toes, clawing the linoleum, screaming no not back there take me anywhere but there I'm not ready I just got out just one more minute of sunlight for the love of god have pity goddamn you no no no don't take my creativity sex-drive energy smile away JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME?!!!!!


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