Bought a pack of Marlboro Blacks that I can’t afford especially now that I’m quitting (says the woman sitting in the plastic lawn chair smoking.)
I made up my mind not to call but I did anyway and I’m not surprised as I often make up my mind about things only to find me ignoring myself (oh, shut up, you/me/whatever.) She was sitting there lonely, my disabled mother, on Christmas eve of all days, and as I listened to her speak I wasnt sure I heard. I’ve smoked so many cigarettes since then that my breath comes out in tiny wheezing sounds, but I couldn’t care less.
I’ll probably smoke the whole pack and then be shit on cause it’s Christmas and every store is denying us our goods per preference of a holiday no one even cars about anymore (oh wait, they do?)
I want to punch someone in the face or maybe just me for being so pitiful and overweight and annoyed and irritable and such of myself. Writing is freedom; let’s me click-click-clack my way out of this hellish mind of mine.
You’d think hypomania would be a good time, a nice fling, a fun vacay, but it’s not. It comes with too much baggage to get on the plane at takeoff and then you’re just left standing there holding your empty yet overloaded luggage watching as your flight leaves the runway.
Funny how I call myself all kinds of nasty names that I’d never let my kids repeat inside my own house, but I never really seem to make any progress in that department. Therapy reminds me of boundaries and mindfulness and positive self-talk but my bipolar self shits on all that and laughs hysterically.
I love the way this phone makes an old- timey clickety-clack sound as I tap the letters on the screen. Click. Clack. Clickity-clickity-clack.
Whoosh, ka-ching. I’m done. Peace.