I killed myself.
A Tuesday. Fresh cut grass, the smell welcoming, as if to announce Spring and rebirth. Then you think of Hay Fever and laugh at the simplicity we hold for nature. Leave it. Don’t branch off. Knock on wood.
I coughed on a stranger. It was unintentional. My apology was sincere, as was his vulgarity. Made me think: This asshole probably eats with his mouth open. Food flying. Spit soaring. An intentional imbecile. To be noted: If I see this man again, I will sneeze on him.
Fast food is absolutely disgusting, but there is an occasional craving. When you lift the top bun of a cheeseburger and it gets stuck to the cheese. That’s all I have to say about that. The quality of the food has put us in a pickle.
I’m tired. I’m sure there is a mattress salesman close by to sell me a dream. What is my most comfortable thread count? Futon it is!
I haven’t killed myself, yet, but I’ve died a long time ago.
But, dying and killing yourself
aren’t one in the same.
The dead walk.
Ones who kill