When people go away, the ones left always say, “I can’t live without ’em.” It’s a feelin’, sure and certain, deep down. It tells us that’s how things are gonna be. But, the cigarettes disappear from the box, the boxes vanish from the carton, and each day rolls into the next, an endless trudge of smoke and grief. Even tho’ that damn feelin’ keeps gnawin’ our insides into slush, we keep pullin’ in the next breath. We stay alive.
Life sucks, plain and simple. No matter how much we wanna lay down and die, it keeps beatin’ the shit out of us day after day. The only way to stop it is to blow your fuckin’ brains out. If that ain’t your cup of piss, then the sun keeps on comin’ up, the seasons change, and the days march ahead, draggin’ you along like the prisoner you finally realize you are.
I didn’t think I’d make it thru Christmas. I thought time was gonna stop, the air would dry up, and I’d die on the floor of my apartment like a floppin’ fish stranded on an island of grungy laundry.
And then it didn’t happen.
I dunno how I feel about that.
Still, the happy crapfest is over and I can breathe a little–for now, anyways. Her birthday is soon. She’ll be twenty-three. I got her present wrapped and waitin’, like I still got the one from Christmas. I guess they’ll stack up until I see the end of this thing, or it sees the end of me. I already found out that last one probably ain’t gonna happen, so they’ll just sit and collect dust for her–collect it in my place, I guess.