Here Comes Christ On Crutches

So, look out, because he's coming to kick some serious a*s.

Completed antibiotics, still not better. I don't even know what the pee is wrong with me, just that it seems like my body's simply dumb and can't figure out how to churn this crackle into phlegm and hack the crap out from my throat. Then, the crap I can't get out just sort of rests on my airways, or heart, or whatever, and I'm constantly exhausted and tired, can't do much without panting and having to catch my breath. It has been weeks, now. My arse has been severely kicked. I will never smoke again, and I now make no mistake or qualms about the fact that I was a smoker, just because it was weed and not cigarettes. The way I feel, how sick I've been, I can't deny it.

And, work is no help. I just won't get any sort of break, which defeats the whole purpose of having moved here and out of my apartment. I hate, hate, HATE my schedule that basically just may as well scream at my face "no, Amy, you don't get to change your life, you don't get a rest or enjoy your life, you are doomed to just live here as a paid slave". Well, keep me overworked, because that means you're paying me while my general attitude takes a dramatic nosedive, and I'll just continue to eat out and purchase crap, like a computer with working word processing programs on which to finally upload and edit my resume and send it to find a job that will give me what I want and deserve. Even without a stretch of time off, I can still do that. You don't want me doing that, and neither do I, really, so would you just give me the time off I'm looking for, and not force me to do it? That'd be great, thanks.

And, you: the most beautiful boy in the world, the kid who keeps disappearing and coming back. . . I just won't learn this lesson, and I would like to be allowed to get away with it, dude on the crutches. Not that I'm getting away with anything, really. I trade my values, my romantic idealizations, all of what I am in the heart, for this piece of superficial and topical perfection of beauty, just to prove every time how shallow I really am. It's almost like I can't help it. Even my mom gushes over how perfect and gorgeous he is, calling him an Adonis, which of course, he is. So attractive that I'm scared of him, and always have been. No matter how abrasive I find him, how vile our situation is to me, how much I hate it, I just can't help but end up bouncing atop him, daring to look at his face with his sexually glazed over eyes. Holy damn, you're just physically all that, and I don't care to fight it, except in my imagination where I can turn you into someone I can c*m on. You. I get so excited when I think you're gone from my life, get upset with myself for not being upset with you when you return. I'm ready for someone else to enter my life, though, the one whose bench you're warming, or even ready for you to find the same.
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Mopy
Sounds like pneumonia. Did they take a culture before picking what antibiotics you had to take?
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Cynic