Roxanne drabble~ of soggy toast and suicide...

Lost: 1 happy and tenacious inner child. If found, please leave her exactly where she is. Ugggggh I cannot believe I am actually trying this write-down-all-your-thoughts psychology bullshit. I feel like one of those pretentious little pricks who paint their nails black and treat Twilight like a Bible.

*grumbles* And noooow for the proxy therapy olympics HOYAY

~Roxanne drabble??~

Suicide blossoms for me into a reality, not on the hardest and starkest of days, but on the longest. The lazy ones, the ones where the boulevard ledge sings of oblivion and every contorted grill-grin of passing cars is as the face of an old friend, crooning promises of crumpled dashboard peace. The backstage monochrome of the fragility of bodies suddenly springs to a Blue-Ray of yawning stairways and lengths of cloth and pills and bleach and sharp, sharp things.

I don't ever succumb so it's not like I'm worried. But I do wonder at where my line is drawn, whether in sand or crayon or barbed-wire lace. The simplest of slips...a kamikaze toaster in a sly bathtub.

And I find myself pondering the oddest things, such as, what would a toaster be doing in a bathroom? Well of course you would have moved it there, numbnuts. But more importantly, would the toast still be in it? Would it be toasted or half toasted or barely crisp? Buttered? And I think, it can't be done, because the toast will get soggy. And soggy toast is just...against nature.

True heartache breaks upon you like the grief of the rockpool dwellers abandoned by high tide, swallowed up by greedy beaches. It doesn't creep, it doesn't drive the cupid's-bane dart through caving ventricles. There's no cracks or splinters or ruptures. No grating of tectonic plates like grotesque slabs of angry cake. It just insinuates. It settles quietly in your chest and coaxes that seething hot mass of heave-ho and to-and-fro and stop-and-flow to the weary dust we'll all be one day.

There's no despair, just a dull acceptance that when you lay your head down to sleep, it'll be no less heavy to lift in the light of the Sesame day. And as for waking, it's not that you hope you won't. Nothing so fucking stupid. Nothing so shamefully cliche.

I just wish, if I could only stop hoping, I could stop hurting.

~~~

....in other non-spastic-emo-dependentonDA-retarded-news, saw Cats and Dogs the Revenge of Pussy Galore. Practically snorted jelly babies out my nostrils. At best, a mixed day. Dolly-mix day.