Here’s the thing: I’ll let it all out, tell the world and no one will care. It will be the same as before I let it all out. No one will care. Enough. People may care enough to fix me dinner, buy me a coffee, buy the book, write a review, maybe send a letter. But no one will find me a good therapist or marry me. No one will give me a child.
But after I put it all out there…I’ll have no reason to kill myself any longer. I won’t be harboring resentment, guilt or secrets of any kind.
What a fucking idiot.
The stories will be released and I will no longer be poisoned. I can move on. Forgive as they say.
And to top it all off–my stories will be first world problems. I let that off my chest? Please. And for what?
For one more reason to put one foot in front of the other that’s for what.
I’ve always been in danger. Foolish.
I just now checked out a fifteen year old girl (probably) in a mini skirt. I’m sick and I keep telling you about it.
I’m letting go of the truth. Giving it to you. And moving on to make more sick memories.
Twisted. First world style.