Musings on Day 698

It’s after 2 in the morning and I can’t sleep. I have an appointment. But I’ve had about ten minutes of sleep, letting “BoJack Horseman” keep me company. I seal my bedroom door shut so the cat can’t come and with the television screen and my phone the only lighting, I can sit in the darkness. As if it would actually help. When you have the flu, or the cold, they tell you to rest. I feel like I’ve been resting forever and it hasn’t done me a bit of good.

Of course, my brain had to go back to imagining absurd and destructive personalities like, “We can be friends again” or It’s just a miscommunication.”

These things may be true, though I’m dubious about the latter. But they circle my head and dizzy me, make me feel nauseous, and I can’t sleep.

I long to be Bojack and cut my pain with something. But whiskey was our drink, which is why I can’t stand to drink anymore, and I can’t stand the taste of beer. And I don’t even know where the joints are or which cartridge actually takes away an lone ounce of my suffering.

Just an ounce. Is that too much too fucking ask? For one ounce of my pain to be lifted off my body. Huddled in the fetal position like I’ve died while trying to keep warm. My room is like a mausoleum. Cold dark, quiet, even the TV is quiet. But the room is too loud with my thoughts and I can’t sleep. It’s a vicious cycle. Can’t sleep, more depressed, argue with everyone, get more depressed, can’t sleep..eventually body gives out on me completely.

I guess if the universe were to give me one thing it would be that he pick up the phone and actually take fucking accountability for what he did and I would too. But as I’ll hopefully realize later this morning, I can’t hold my breath and throw a tantrum to make that happen.

And as I try to shoo the thought out of my head it’s already formed and haunting me; At the end of the 700 days how long will it be before someone tells him?

About masterpieceofadisaster

Alias: Kuckoo Savant
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