As the title states, I fucked up.
I’ve been cut off by my family and I’m wondering if I should fight the good fight or fucking welcome the nuclear blast with open arms. I’ll get a fabulous tan before I’m incinerated, my shadow imprinted into the side of a building.
I’ve been uninvited to Christmas with my family, so I imagine I’ll spend Christmas Eve on top of the water tower by myself. Contemplate how badly it’ll hurt to fall from a height of 150 ft. Maybe I’ll bring up a Sharpie to figure out how fast and how quickly I’ll hit the pavement below with the frivolous lessons I learned in physics. A closed casket funeral a few days later. Shovel up my goop into a pine box, throw it into a hole with nothing but the gravedigger and parson as witnesses. The man of God might say some empty words about how no one should grieve for me for God cares. What a load of cock and bull. Maybe no one will go to work or school so my body will rot for a few days. Food for the ravens. Funny. I used to feed them sandwich meat on the weekends. Now I’ll be feeding them my entrails. Consider it my final gift and meal, my nightmares with wings.
All this shit has made me realize that I’m a hopeful person. Maybe things aren’t so bad. Perhaps this is the test, the crucible that’ll mould me into a better person.
That’s wishful thinking. I’m just a coward of what is to come and I can’t move forward until something gives me a swift kick in the ass.