I can't sleep. It's five a.m. and I'm making a pot of coffee. It'll be daylight soon, and I've got a Herculean task ahead. I am compelled to write a letter of response to an Old Flame, defending my sanity and overall emotional state. It's gonna be an uphill write. Yeah, it's not even dawn yet, and I'm getting wired and trying to convince someone I haven't seen in two years that I'm not, as she put it, "going to do anything stupid...maybe you should find someone to talk to..." What disappointing cliches for her to use. Just say fucking 'commit suicide' or 'see a shrink', goddamnit.
And no, that's not in my plans.
I had sent Old Flame a link to my blog and she sent back a troubling letter, referring to my previous post. She thinks I'm gonna kill myself, and to make it worse, she thinks it's because of her. How freakin' vain.
Write, delete, repeat. This is going nowhere. I can't write this letter. This is phone-call stuff. Writing an RE: I am worried for you email is worse than useless, it's a recipe for disastrous misunderstanding.
Wait a sec. She's worried enough to write me an email? I'm touched.
I'm angry. I thought she knew me better than that. The darker and more hopeless the tone of my work, be it music, paper words or blog, the less likely I am to be wallowing in real-world despair.
If I was going to kill myself I wouldn't be writing about it. I wouldn't be trying to get a band together again. I wouldn't be putting in time at the station. I wouldn't have quit drinking.
I'd be fucking dead already.
I'd leave behind an ugly corpse and a really amusing suicide note.
( I'm gonna make that call before I post this, just so you know I'm ok)
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