The End of the Line
I FUCKING HATE YOUR MOTHER FUCKING GUTS. THERE IS NOTHING GOOD ABOUT YOU; YOU’RE A VILE, DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT. I wish you were a vestigial organ.
Unfortunately, about a year or so ago there was an essay that I couldn’t finish, and I couldn’t figure out why. After dozens of rewrites I tossed it aside, something I never do. As a rule, I write and rewrite until it, whatever it is gets finished. This piece was different. Because I had the liberty to let it go, I did, but never completely.
bored yet, me too. You will listen, you shitroid.
This week, the puzzle was organically solved, no thanks to you.
Disease went to finishing school and received a PhD in massacring relationships. Some bonds I thought were impossible to break, were annihilated.
So, I find myself obsessing about how to resolve them. Asking questions like, what else can I do? How can I make this right? How can I place myself in their shoes? Have I asked enough questions about their experience? Have I accepted enough responsibility? Is the damage to great to fix? If so, do I have the right to force resolution on them? To me, I do not. But, what the fuck do I do? My conflict breeds more inner turmoil and conflict. Being this twisted up keeps me stuck. I feel it in my bones. How do I resolve it?
I don’t fuckin’ know, though I do think you should be burned in grand style at “Burning Man.”