#spewage

You are less yourself every day

All over the world, flying around you and me-- they must be S-P-A-M (to the tune of Shonen Knife - S*P*A*M) #16QAM #shoulders #spewage

I haven't worked a full 40hr week in months. Months. Haven't even tried. I could be drowning in my work. I could be working overtime and taking advantage of my raise and building my savings account. But I always choose my comfort. I always choose home. I have settled on decisively hating my job and doing everything to avoid it, while reaping as many benefits outside of the office as possible. I figured so long as I don't spend all my money on nonsense, I can just deal with my weak checks and not bother. I still feel that way mostly, but I know that eventually I will have to focus solely on the money. I will have to stop taking so much voluntary time off. I want to go numb. I want to divorce myself from the dread I feel when I swipe my badge through the door. I think of the woman bringing home 120 hours on one check. How? How does she not hate it? Why am I suffering so much with just being present? Feeling heavy the night before, like my mind never actually leaves that place? Why do I feel so defined by this period in my life where...I'm not doing what I want to do because...I have no clue what I want to do? Why haven't I grit my teeth by now? I should be doing better, I think. But I still have so much lethargy built up. I am still holding out for some miraculous clarity that just makes me proud to wake up in the morning and do what I need to do. Where is my hustle, my drive, my determination? It's not here. I interviewed for a new department in hopes that...I don't know, maybe I can find some middle ground. I'll never love this call center, but maybe I can tolerate a different kind of call. So I'm taking the chance and trying to remember...it's only been a year and eight months. I'm not ass out with no options. I'm not as trapped as I think I am. Get your fucking poop in a group, Bella.

shuffling through musty lace was a bad idea for a blue Monday so many tears my stomach muscles ached but there were smiles captured in tattered scrapbooks rife with tickets and pressed flowers I could not be swayed  from trying to hold something lovely  why did I keep the rusty rivet next to the dancer in the box velvet and chrome remembrances folded next to faded streamers carrying memory whiffs of cake I have no gimmick nothing for you to remember me by unless you see me as a quilt pieced together from all I've touched

just sitting idly watching my letters swirl in a whirlpool all my resources gone by mid-morning what would it take at this point in the day to sharpen that pencil lick the tip and go to town with poetry wandering mostly aimlessly except where letters look and sound and feel freaking great on the tongue you know there's a trajectory that can be followed with thoughts and food and sex and sleep when you read enough you can tell when a writer is sated and when a writer is full of shit which undoubtably is most of the time with writers I know or we wouldn't write we'd help fix things instead of remarking artfully about them so what would it take at this point to have a point perhaps it was already made in some pithy phrase that you glossed over in your zeal to be through such long-winded streaming or perhaps this is one of those times you need to watch your step