My ex, the real one, really fucked me up. There are some things that I can blame on him, and some things I can’t, but as I try to schedule a time into my day to bring the final papers to my notary and for the last time let him siphon another $75 (exactly .01% of what he previously stole, ironically) from me, I realize how I have turned away from monitoring my money because I didn’t want to acknowledge how much he stole. It sickens me that I can be so blind.

As the Stomach Turns

I’m holding back, and I don’t know why. At the beginning, where I say that I don’t have time for this, I then frame my thoughts with that as the excuse for glossing over things, for rushing through things, and leaving the stones unturned along my path to whatever scrap of meaning that I scrape together out of my sleep dust. All that’s well and good, but I see that I’m still here, more than a year later, with the same problems, the same ex, the same boy, and the same headache. If I skip over the stones, if I turn over the stones, the same time was taken. There is no use rushing through this. This space, it’s not a path to somewhere, it’s a racing track. Everything that I run past, I’ll be running past it again on the next lap.