i’m so vain, i probably think this pain is about me.

i’m where i should be all the time, and when i’m not

as if

i’ve been yelled at enough in my life already, thanks

turning blue in somebody else’s bathroom had to break the door and call the ambulance again and the big deal is your heart will stop beating and you will stop breathing height of selfish bad manners

and she

she can damn well be mean

and i

stop drink all the time

i was doing my life story assignment and had to look on somebody else’s paper for the answer

didn’t even have good seats

runaway and thumbin’ rides

lonelier than suicide

This part is real:

I think that my relationship with my family can accurately be called Stockholm Syndrome.

I’m too old for this to still be true: There are things that people did to me that I have never told anyone because I’m so ashamed.  Something feels like my fault.  I should have fought back and/or planned a murder.  I would at least like them to know that their murder has been on my mind.  Not ones that are already murdered.  People still alive.

And I hate to be Debbie Downer on Monday but where was this so called god when all this was happening to me?  If it makes you feel better, more power to you, but he is now what he’s always been: your imaginary friend.  sometimes he’s on duty and sometimes he’s screening those calls like a degenerate gambler with a rapidly shrinking circle of friends.  PICK UP GODDAMIT!  PICK UP!!!  no?  no surprises here.