Decision Point

Posted: August 7, 2011 in transliteration
Tags:

I’m fucked up at 3:40 in the morning.
I left work early to five people
all infinitely smarter than me
telling me how to live my life
because I left an hour early
with a headache that has been progressing
and worsening
for the past four days
into a paint that I could still ignore
but I couldn’t see anymore
and I was having difficulties standing up.

I just wanted to go home.
This is my home, where I cooked for myself last night for the first time
and came in the door to that skinny, chatty bitch telling me
that I’m welcome to use their kettles whenever I want to cook something
because I used my own last night
and cleaned up after myself.

Not out of kindness; because I cleaned up after myself.
Because I have no room in the fucking kitchen to store anything, so I bring my food down the stairs with me
and I take my cooking utensils back upstairs with me.

I don’t want to use your stuff.
I want to use mine.
If I wanted to use your stuff, I’d ask.

If I wanted the advice of three of my coworkers
and two of my bosses
and all of my sexual encounters

I
would
ask.

I’m perfectly capable of living my own life
making my own decisions
and cooking with my own fucking pots.

I’m out of pain medication
that can hardly touch this headache anyway.

I don’t believe in God, but I’m going to fast for the month, because I’m starving to death anyway.
If being skinny weren’t so fucking idealized, someone might notice before I fall over from malnutrition.
I know all about nutrition, but thanks for all of the bullshit advice that I didn’t ask for and don’t care about.
That’s for paying me absolute shit. I’ll do what you tell me in regards to work, but that’s it.

Stay out of my personal life.
Stay out of my way.
Let me cook the way I want, fuck the way I want, and despise this religion the way I see fit.

I do not need any more outside irritants than what passively bombard me just by co-existing.

Do I tell you what to do with your life? Do I? Have I made any mention of what I think you should or should not be doing with your life? Huh? The only shit I say about what you do is in regards to how it directly makes me feel during or afterwards, and if you don’t care, then don’t fucking change; but don’t expect me to maintain a high level of composure with the constant repetition of bullshit.

Stay the fuck out of my way. Does my body language not express this clearly enough? I don’t talk to you. I don’t hold up my end of the conversation well when you talk to me. Do I really need to put on a dramatic verbal act for you to fucking get it?

My head is conspiring to explode, and I just want to be alone with it in a vain attempt to calm it down, because it’s going to take me out with it when it goes.

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