fourteen hours of sleep

which stands as evidence of the week that was. & then there were a few hours of work & then a few minutes of yelling & being yelled at & being told not to use the word fuck in the house & well just don’t be a fucking asshole, & i won’t have to will i? what else is there to say with that heat traveling up the back of the scalp? it burns. which happens when the yelling is pent-up days-weeks-months-years, there’s no discussing these things, for that some validity would have to be assigned where no amount of discussion has ever resulted in its assignment. there are hopeless cases, this is one.

& there are things i need to throw. & can’t. & things that could do with some breaking. can’t. if comfort exists anywhere in this helpless rage it’s that this won’t last forever. things will break, & not the dishes. as satisfying as that would be.

there will be demolition soon enough. something like it anyway. more like i’ll chew my leg off. whatever. so, decision: for the amount of times i said i don’t care (& meant it) do i obey anyway? there will be venomous remarks if i don’t, i don’t care. but do i want to hear it? i hate it. how can i not care and hate? well, i can.

[this is where a listing of the bitterest sort of grievances was before i selected it with the mouse & typed this instead.]

because it truly does not matter. nothing does, right? however there is scant comfort in nihilistic rhetoric when there are forty five mintues maybe left, & things go straight back to shit.

fourteen hours of sleep & i’m still exhausted.