This one may never get published. This one may be a draft for it's entire life...only accessible by the one (or four? who knows anymore? I write them down...dumb*ss) who knows my password.


("The one who knows my password" was supposed to reference me...but now it could mean anyone. Great. Whatever.)

Ever been sick of you? Of who you are right now? At this moment?
(This is a rhetorical question, of course. Which question is rhetorical? Oh. All of them.)

Not in a sad, pity, woe is me, forlorn-y way...but ANGRY sick.

Like a For-God-Sake-Shut-UP! kind of angry sick.

WHY have I been feeling sorry for myself and rolling around in some imaginary mire? Good f*cking grief! HOW did I become the quivering, flailing freak anyway?! WHAT happened that made me so falsely brash and adolescent-ly (I realize I am making up words) impudent and grossly self-absorbed? (This is starting to shape up like the Five W's of reporting - only HOW begins with an H...OHMYGOD! SHUT UP!)

Oh, poor confused terri...trying to sort it all out...blah blah blah. Truth is, I f*cked up. This is my doing. I made myself this way. D*mn it.

And now I have made everything so foul and ugly and shameful and disgusting...and it's my mess to throw out and start over.

So start pitchin', sista, and stop the whining. Enough is ENOUGH. No more...