I am not doing well.

My brain chemistry is way out of whack. I can feel it pressing down on me. This great depression filling everything with inky black tendrils of cold. 

Not even Motörhead covering God Save the Queen is helping. Because fucking Lemmy is dead. Been binging Bowie and Lemmy. All the greatest dead ones. 

Ever cry to Motörhead? It is like the clouds parting and God shouting at you to get your shit together or move along.

Fuck. Fucking fuckery. I would stomp about and scream profanities if I could get up without wanting to die.

Oh fuck. Now it is Lemmy covering Bowie. This version of Heroes is my favorite. You can hear it in his voice. 

A bag of dicks to this entire shit show of a universe. I wish the orange Shrek impostor would just hit the reset button. 

I am gonna fuck off and try and figure out what to do. Probably fucking sob for hours. Who fucking cares. 

When my mother caught my father with another woman everything went to shit. It was always coming. When my aunt told me they were only together because of me i knew the writing was on the wall. I was not special enough for two people to ruin their lives over. 

Yet they tried.

When I told my dad I wanted to live with him, he was happy. He tried to be cool about it. He knew I has been sneaking dips of chewing tobacco. So he decided to embrace it and try himself.

I had a spitter. He made the rookie mistake of forgetting to spit. We made it to the Blarney Pub, home away from home and he threw up for what seemed like forever behind a dumpster. It was hilarious. Especially getting to explain it to the regulars inside that I had known for years. 

I miss him. It has been 14 fucking years since I heard him tell me he loved me. I would give anything for another year.

Just to apologize. For ruining everything. For failing at every turn. I am so sorry Dad. I don’t know how we got here. It all just spiralled and suddenly it was this tire fire of a life. 

Empty and painful. Shit. Just fucking shit. 

Fuck. Someone needs to take my fucking internet privelige away. But I promised the fucking truth. So choke on every miserable fucking bite of it. 

This isn’t cathartic. It doesn’t burn away the misery and make it all better. No fucking cartoon bluebird whistling zippity doo dah as I hit publish. Whatever I feel as I type I live with after. The highs are great and the lows are 99 percent of the time. 

It has been a rough week. Sorry dear friend. I am so very sorry for everything. 

This too shall pass. 

Right?

Hello? 

Oh yeah. All alone. Fuck. 

Fuck.