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Muddled Thoughts at 3:46 Monday Morning.



I don't want to think about anything real.

I don't want to talk to anyone.

I don't want to hear anything,

I don't want to read anything,

I sure as hell don't want to write anything.

I don't want to be a wife or a parent or a daughter.

I long for my youth and my single chin and my neck.

I really miss  having a neck...

you walk around thinking,

Hey, I'm ok and then you see pictures of yourself and think, well FUHHHHCK.

How the hell did I pick up all these extra chins and where's my neck?



My friend Ruth passed away.

She recently turned 88.

She misplaced a couple of years and maintained she was 86 but no. 

I could kick myself for not ever getting around to making poor dear Ruth the popcorn I promised to bring her weeks ago.

Isn't that they way  though. Regret. You forgot the lessons you learned before.

I forgot I do not have all the time in the world.

My time is up.

I lied to the kids who also felt guilty for not bringing Ruth her popcorn.

Told them the doctors said she couldn't have it.

If lying to spare my children guilt on top of grief makes me a bad mother, so be it.


I want to run away and hide.

I feel that I must shore my self up, box myself in, close my self off, shut down.


I'm all past raging and arm waving.

All I can hear is the tick of that cheap clock Mom gave me, the one she won at bingo.

All I can hear is the clang and crash of the dishes in the kitchen,
the hum of the dryer.

Back to real life, back to it.

Back to daily visits with my aging mother.

Doing her laundry, taking out her trash, changing the cat litter, running to the store to buy more fucking cat food.

If I wasn't sort of nice I'd drop kick those furry little shit dispensers through the window.

It's back to being the good one, the nice one, the patient one.


Everything feels significant.


Maybe it's the late hour.

Maybe it's loss.

Maybe it's the cheap clock marking the seconds passing.

This is your life passing,

TICK. TICK. TICK.

Crooked face, awkward jerking arms.

HERE. YOU. ARE. 



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