I did not get more than two hours of sleep at a stretch last night. The six-and-change hours I was on track to get were unlikely to be enough, and then I broke it into jagged little pieces. Fuck.
It hurts. I can feel myself thrashing in the tethers, leather sliding and burning my already irritated skin. I DID a week. Why isn’t this the end? Why hasn’t something worked out yet? Why do I have to work so hard this weekend to make next week an experience I can merely tolerate and survive. Enjoy isn’t even in this area code.
I cried last night. Harder and more than I expected. It helped. I ate last night. Almost as much as I needed. It helped. If I take a nap when I get home, it might help. I know I am physically and mentally and intellectually and emotionally able to do what stretches before me. But I don’t want to! I want to sit down on the playground and throw the jump ropes and cross my arms and pout. When some well-intentioned poor sap motherfucker comes over to ask me what’s wrong, I just want to scream at him that I can’t. I can’t do this stupid job. And nobody would want to, and why are you trying to make me. It sucks. And it’s stupid. And I hate it. And I want it to stop. I just want the job to go away. I want my responsibilities to this job to go away.
But I don’t have anything else yet (When I say this, even in my head my voice slides up in pitch and cracks on the unheaved sob) . The only thing even remotely possible won’t really pay my bills. And nothing is instantaneous. Even if that timid sapling fruits it could be weeks. Months. This shit could go on all year. The next year could be life could be this awful stomach rotting meal of all of my least favorite things. WHAT. AM. I. GOING.TO. DO? How can I fix this? It’s not fixed yet. How could I possibly make it be fixed, now now now?!
Yeah. This shit fuckin’ sucks and I just want to be fucking done with it. I want to stand up from the poker table in my hip hop couture track suit and flip it. As the money flutters away in the gusts from the wind machine and poker chips slide artfully into the laps of my surprised competition, I want to hear the booming bass and the chorus roll in. I want ironic credits to scroll and the video to end. Outro.
But I ain’t that money til I get there.