And They Love You

Brian Sella Will Write My Eulogy

 I came to in a lake, water up to my knees, hem of my (borrowed) dress soaked and muddy. 

I'm not sure how I got there, or how I got them to come, but they did. They wrapped me in jackets and blankets and kind words. They bought me cigarettes. They took me home.

Its been a non-zero amount of times now. There has to be a finite limit to how much understanding and love one person can give, I think. I think that if I'm sick of my shit, the people who aren't required to stick by me until the end must be too. And I am. Sick of my shit, I mean. 

In the warm bath I drew for myself when I got home, I hold my mouth and nose under and try to fall asleep. I know I can't do it, but the burning in my lungs is well worth the moment when I resurface, gasping, and feeling like those life-preserving instincts exist somewhere within me. 

Other things happened today. I don't remember what. I sometimes feel like I don't live days, I live stretches of time between fucking episodes. I sometimes wonder if there is anyone in the world who is as fucked up as I am. I sometimes swear I wouldn't want to meet them. I detest looking in the mirror, anyway. 

There's nothing to do to wrap this day up. I wish I could go downstairs and initiate intimate contact with Flower Boy, but I feel a) gross and dumb and b) guilty about the idea of using sex with another human to get out of my haze. So, excuse me, my blushing Leo, but if you want the raw, I always deliver. 

I'll take off my dinosaur onesie, and make myself cum until I can't remember my name, let alone the way the water felt sliding up my legs. Then I'll reward myself with a smoke and a bowl of cinnamon toast crunch. 

This is my life. I mean, sure. Fine. OK. But Brian Sella better write my fuckin eulogy, or I'll have lived this aesthetically for no reason.