there is simultaneously something wrong with me and nothing wrong with me. i held these three pills in my hands for a few minutes before popping them in my mouth and chasing them down with a beer you handed me. remember that time we bought a cheap jug of wine and finished it off, lighting cigarettes and putting them out on the insides of our wrists. i picked at those scabs so often “i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything”. i am somehow content (has the klonopin kicked in already?). maybe because i’m not really here. my body isn’t proof that i exist. my ability to feel something, anything. that’s proof. self destruction as a form of art. suicide as a sort of present, or whatever it was that david foster wallace once said to me in a dream.
but the mouth shaped bruises on my shoulders tell me it was real.
hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.
hypothetically speaking, if i had just desperately (& somewhat dramatically) sifted through the ashtray lying on my nightstand so as to salvage for the butts of any cigarettes that had a puff or two left… would i be considered pathetic? no? ok, good.