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Everything is all fucked up, and fuck this and fuck that.

Anxiety attacks? Suuure! Let's have some of those today, because I'm not being fair. I'm giving you my words, personally delivering them to you via telephone.

Yes. I can talk to you about this. Yes, you want my heart? Sure. I hand that over hand. I shouldn't be in life today. I shouldn't have crawled out of bed this morning. I should have just taken that friend to bed with me, sleeping with my hand around the bottle, only letting go in a shift.

Yes. Today would be the Smiths. Today would be 3 packs of cigarettes, 2 packs of kleenex, and 1 bottle of rum.

Today is not for giving you my heart while I'm at work. It's not for wrestling with jeans, or listening to the chime of my bracelet.

And maybe, at every turn on I-90, I saw my way out, a cracked through windshield, a bloody mess on the steering wheel.

It's raining, and fuck this, and fuck that.

6:15 a.m. - 2002-09-25


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