"I'm not sad I'm just dumb
I'm the boy made of stone
Stupid guy yes I am
I'm the boy who's all alone"
Ugh, this isn't easy to write, but I'm doing it, as I think it might relieve some of the internal bullshit going on in my mind. But I'll cut to the chase: if I owned a handgun, I probably would be fucking dead right now, a casualty of a self inflicted bullet entering and exiting alternate sides of my head.
I'm not kidding. And I actually thought I would be doing the world a favor - in that I'm just no good/worth nothing/a burden. Thankfully I have come to my senses, but GODDAMN, I don't know if I've ever been this "low".
Don't get me wrong, I'm not sharing this to exact sympathy, honestly. Shit is stacked so high right now, it's almost too REAL. I've realized I've been keeping a lot of shit in, to the point where I have recurring "dreams" about jumping in front of a "L" train (poetic justice!) as that is nearly a viable option to dealing with all the shit in my life.
I haven't really gone into much detail about losing my friend, and what the wake/funeral was like, but HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, it was the textbook definition of sad. 30 year old men should not drop dead of heart attacks - in front of their family no less, and people that knew Mikey more than I did, I had to support. Comforting 65 year old Irish Catholic men is not easy. And the Mass took place in the church my Mom and Dad got married in. I mean, come on!
Other bullshit includes almost losing my new job before it actually started, current Roomie announced he's moving out at the end of the month, my Aunt (the sole remaining relative in Chicago besides my brother) is dying of cancer, my dubious employment status, the fucking shit weather, my aching shoulder, I could go on, but I'll stop. You get the point.
I fully intend on living and functioning as much as I can, and the next person that tells me I should quit smoking is likely to get punched in the dick, and I can almost hear shares of Evan Williams rising; I'm fucking strong and would never, could never, take the "easy" way out, but UGHx10000! How much more shit do I have to eat before shit improves?
Oh, and another thing, the guy I'm dating might "dress up" from time to time, but he's easily more butch than I am. The other night we volleyed text messages explaining in details I won't go into here, on how we plan on making each other our bitches. He's so punk he doesn't even realize it, and I really like that.
So as you can see, I'm not paralyzed, although certainly slightly impaired by my neuroses', and believe me when I say I'm doing the best I can, and NOT feeling sorry for myself; I'm just so fucking stressed it's insane. Which would explain why I'm up at 8AM on a Monday morning, writing this, smoking and listening to Apocalypse Hoboken.