Maybe it’s best

What gets my fucking goat the most is that I cannot be Zen about this. I want to, Christ, do I ever want to-I’m so tired of being angry but you can’t fight who you really are so I guess I should let it pass through me like rotten food.

Two emotions are warring, and I don’t know which one is stronger or which one is winning but I suppose it doesn’t really matter since they both feel like knives that caused a mortal wound. One-all the fun I think they’re having. Two-how fucking decrepit and recycled I feel. There’s another one but thinking it and typing it makes me livid enough to start firing off messages and I’m not at that point yet.

do you realize

that you’re inheriting

everything I had to give?

not that you’ll know what to do with it.

here’s another thought

why the fuck am I so concerned with being bubbly and happy and hippy dippy and yay yay the world’s a big clean greenhouse and care bears and flowers?

if you don’t like the reverse of that

well

fuckin toodles

BUT YOU

CANNOT

HAVE BOTH and you are not

getting away with it