My hands hurt. I am tired, and I really want to get high. So basically, I just really want to get high or drunk, but I don’t because I am an ***hole when I get drunk or high.

Too bad, so sad…

You are being a **** too, at least I admit I am doing it.

You did not admit you are doing it, I told you that you were.

I am you, writing on the internet a conversation you are having in our head.

At least we aren’t doing this on a street corner out loud while high.

Yeah, there’s that…

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Gold *****

I am the functional drug addict, I am myth, a lie, something to shield your eye from the fact that you are a drain on your own life, an addiction not just to drugs, but to strain, to the addiction of

MUST

MAINTAIN MAINTAIN MAINTAIN

Hampster wheel of run away

AWAY AWAY A WAY

To seperate self from flames burned on spoons on the street, candles lit for people still sick and suffering, who are dead before you have a chance to meet them….

I am gold, I am pretty, I am neat, I am clean.

Whatever do you mean, that is mean… I am doing just fine, I am golden, baby. I am maintaining mine, you may need help but I do not… I am okay with burning spoons, and keeping all my bowls hot as fire

Fire fire fire

Burn yourself, I am okay with hiding bottles on the shelf.

I am okay okay okay

Please go away.

I did and she stayed there, sitting probably in the same chair, forever and ever, in the life of fog get her.

Fog Get Her

Forget her.

She tells me I am an alcoholic, drug addict, and spits on me, when I ask her for some change, I tell her that’s strange, because she is high on the same drug, and she look in the ****ing mirror if she wants to insult anyone. I pretend it doesn’t bother me, but it does, enough that I am writing about it right now, and still thinking about it months later.

I was doing speed with this girl a week before asking for the change, and asked her for the change because I thought she would sympathize being a drug addict her self.

Smoke

You stand out in my memory, smoke goddess, of midnight, standing with me in the fog, you and I, fought the day, you shrouded in red, and me shrouded in decay of my mind, unlike you, already gone, already mad, I stood staring out at the river, ranting about nothing, ranting about everything, speaking nothing, speaking everything, talking about the universe, but also saying nothing at all, you were very unique and also every woman I ever met.

That is one of the worst things I have ever heard you say. Every woman is the same?

No, this one was just unreal, and seemed like everyone and no one.

Okay, better, thank you.

Did he give you the cold shoulder?

My icy shoulder warms for you.

You are really creepy.

I am not, she warms my shoulder, with her nice eyes.

You were perfect, and I ruined you.

I touched your face with vanity, the loving glow of insanity.

She was perfect and you put make-up on her.

I like to ruin the things I admire.

Why?

It makes them insecure like me.

Women are not things.

Oh, yeah right.

You are such an ***hole.

What does that even mean?

I liked how it sounded, rappers do it, why can’t it be done with horror, and actually all letters you write me are severe, because they are severly disturbing to average people.

That is actually very true.

I know that is why I thought of it.

Not everything you think is true.

Blue poking madness, is dark gladness, or glowing sadness

Name one thing.

I am not a drug addict, I just like heroin and can do it responsibly this time, if I just don’t drink. This is actually something you were thinking today. How do I know, because I was thinking it to.

I am a box that never should have been opened.

I am trying it one time, and never again.

I will never do it two days in a row.

I can just drink one.

I can just have three.

I will start at five.

I will start at 12.

Severly, means harshly, and I think that a lot of us talking to each other, can be considered harsh, which is why I like you.

You like me because you have to, because I am you, or half you, and you are in love with your whole self which is half me.

Sick burn.

My whole is not my fault. I was scre… can’t even sarcastically say this, this is insane, not true, ****.

I had nothing to do with this, I had nothing to do with this. I had nothing to do with this, my whole life is very short, I had nothing to do with this.

I am blame.

I am not at fault.

It was fate from the very start, I have done nothing wrong, my whole life, Hell’s theme song.

I am such a bad liar.

My hand! My hand!

I am laughter, I am contention, I am a soul with no potential for redemption.

It’s all because of you, not anything I do, I got dealt such **** cards, look at me, my life was hard.

It’s got to be my hand, my hand, because I am missing my finger tips on three fingers, my thumb, my right one, the right one, the one I used to write with, not I type with… that has to be the reason that I failed, lived a life of ship has sailed, clearly not that I jumped off, long ago.

Your hand happened, our hand happened when we were 32, you are 36, four years was not all the ruining we did…

You said we, not just you…

I know, I feel sorry for you sometimes.

Yourself, stupid.

I know stupid, I am good at that.

Wow, that is disgusting don’t type that…

Oh I know, I thought that too, I am always right behind you.

That is creepy as all Hell.

Guess, what it got us.

It is just as well.

My family had 3 cats, two of which have this strange problem, they used to refuse to use the liter box, and just go around using the house as theirs. They have stopped doing this, and I have this strange, probably psychotic belief that in some way it is because of something weird.

I talk to them, and am honest with them, and make eye contact with them, and for whatever reason, alongside that, they have stopped doing the defecating and peeing in the house thing. Be it what it may….

https://skepticskaddish.com/2023/03/29/w3-prompt-48-weave-written-weekly/

“Hope is the thing with feathers“,

speaking of her bird, named Hope, poor choice telling me this.

I have been thinking of killing that parrot ever since she told me it’s name, not because of what she said about it, but because the **** thing listens to me talk to myself. I hate that damn bird, it needed exactly what happened to it. It still looks exactly the same as it did before, except for one crucial detail, now hope is dead and stuffed, wonder how long it will take her to figure out she now has a stuffed parrot. Probably as long as it is going to take for me to figure out how to get the **** out of her before she kills me, which is not going to happen, she is not a good fighter.

Oh, look, a window, that was simple enough, looks like your hope is just like me, out the window, or yours is behind it.

I used to wash my hands a lot, when I was so elated, that I could have been instated to a psych ward for lack of a pillow because I hadn’t slept in days, because I was so happy

To pace around looking for a place to sleep where no one could

Steal everything I own, hurt me, kill me, or follow me for the rest of my life, so I decided to cause my own strive instead, sitting and consuming my own caustic poisons in dark rooms with friends in that shrouded themselves in clothing that hide their face, like I hid my face, because we hated ourselves so much we desired only to be not there at all, so high above you all… but not really….

How low can I go… I don’t know.. have you ever slept in 30 degree weather in New Mexico in the rain or sleet because you spent all your money on things that were not food or shelter?

Do you know what I felt there?

Over the line…

In decline…

Life resigned…

To a mind…..

In pain..

Life down..

The drain….. A human stain on the brain of a person who is now so different.. I am trying to forget, but have not yet, and maybe I shouldn’t, but I don’t know how to move on, and least for today.. I am singing different song..

What activities do you lose yourself in?

I am standing on a street corner, this time metaphoric, not real.

I am looking into nothing, or myself, whichever one you choose, overcome

By voices, this time internal, not external, not externalized, not demons with painted on despise eyes, not lies or falsehoods, but inner truths, painted because I am listening to me and to you. I am listening closely, with intention to hear, because I have spent a long time, not doing so, with desire to unfeel.

I am wondering what it means, what I do, now that I am focused and listening to you. I am wondering if there is anything, anything at all to any of this for a personal who notices it all. I do not know where I fit in, if I do at all.

I am standing in the middle of also on the side. Existing in the middle, because before I did not have the time, I did not make a choice to listen before, to me, and to you, and am wondering simply in this place, where I stand, what am I to do?

I am told over and over, just watch and to be quiet, but I am confounded with the presence of a mind that exists in riot. I am not trying to assert myself, not this time, but simply to understand, what is the place for my dark mind?