F for Effort

I woke up a little earlier today, I’m glad. Maybe I’ll get some things done.

I need to go to the bank, I need to check my work email, I have to file some stuff away at the IRS, I want to cook a new recipe today, probably go put some stuff into my new apartment, and push through some web design that absolutely must happen.

I keep flipping through my email (I have so many different emails, each one deals with work to varying degrees, in different directions, but every aspect of life must be monetized. Or else, how could I afford anything? I don’t know why people are struggling to “save” an economy that’s clearly been shit my whole life anyway), checking this site, that site, texting a friend, staring out the window… I don’t know.

I booked myself for work later on this month. I have to.

I have to talk to the boy. I am 99.5% sure that he will not be able to handle what I have to say to him. But, I think I should be a good person and say it. Not sure how, but soon.

My boyfriend is getting tested supposedly, and after that will come up to see me. Of course “I have to get tested too” which I certainly will of course but you know what that means. He never took an STD test, did he? Only I had to do that, I should trust him.

Dudes are all terrible, and I guess I don’t feel bad for what I’ve done to them. My friend had a man who, after an accidental pregnancy, straight went out and froze a 6 pack of his sperm, and then went and got a vasectomy.

It feels like a hand, inside me, has grabbed my throat from the inside… a left hand. And it’s pulling down, straight down even though my back is admittedly slouched into this chair (correcting it), straight down into the floor, right to the back bottom of my ribs. A left hand.

Of course, she still broke up with that dude in short order anyway. It sounds like she lost a winner, but she’s not really breaking any IQ records around here so whatever.

And me… I can’t find a man who gives a rat’s ass about me. No man I know would ever do anything like that for me. Literally all they care about is fucking me, they do not care if it kills me. I think the only reason I keep fucking them is because I am, although in a more adult and in denial way, still quite suicidal.

I wonder if that’s why I go out and fuck men when I’m angry at other men that I’m fucking.

Ok, that’s a tender area still. Let’s back off a bit.

My Father called today, but I was not out of bed yet and I don’t like to call until I’ve had a good amount of coffee. Maybe I’ll use that as an excuse to bail on this post (which I just started to scroll back to read) and see what I can make of this day.

I still never told you about that dream that I had about my Father yesterday… or the other day.

I hope it wasn’t prophetic.

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