Sick

I hate being sick. I hate being in pain. But not as much as I hate taking percocet.

I will break, and eventually be alone with my thoughts. Now that it seems possible that my end isn't already written, that I've been handed an eraser and indelible pen, I don't know what to do. I don't know what I want. I know the basics. There are people I want in my life. Some of them are, some of them aren't. Some of them are aware of this, others aren't. I want to write until my dying day. I want to be in love, be loved, have someone to worship, mind and body, until I no longer walk this fucked up earth. I don't want to be sick. I want my sanity, or I want it to leave me completely. I want to learn. I want to go back to uni, again and again. I never want to have learned enough. I want more physical experiences. I want to cliff dive, bungee jump, something. I know I'd rather die than lose my personality, and be aware of it. My personality is all I have. I'm so tired. I could sleep for days, and wake up tired because I slept alone. Stuffed animals and other people's coats don't quite cut it. I want to lucidly explore the repeat dreams I have, especially the one I'm fairly sure represents my mind as a whole, slow rides through open mouths, the ability to steal anything, secret passages and tiny shrines. I do want "i carry your heary with me(i carry it in my heart)" permanently tattooed on my body. I want to love everyone, openly, that I deem deserving. I want to live without certain things. I want a nap. At least that's feasible.

I hate sick days. I'm not at work, but I'm too fucked-up to enjoy it so I just vegetate in front of my PC because I'm too uncomfortable to sleep.

I'd go to work, but I don't want to get snot all over my desk/coworkers >:/

with pain. with anxiety.

like a dream. a silent car ride. choked with drunk sobs kept back. i fucked up. i panicked.

this is a game, a lie. i think of that face, i think lie.

i suck at games. i break the rules. i fuck up.

like a zombie, i curl into a ball, in bed, errant springs stabbing into my ribs, bruise pain that i don't know the origin of.

i want to twist my fingers into the hair at the back of your neck. silly.

my only comfort- if i didn't matter, this wouldn't matter. it's probably not true, but it's kinda nice to think about.

There are times that I feign illness. I do this for many reasons (I just want to be alone, I do not want to deal with something, I have work that I need to get done, etc.). Is it wrong? Who knows? But I've developed a very good "sick voice" for phone conversations when I am calling someone while "sick."

I watched the movie "Sick: The Life and Death of Bob Flanagan." I came to the conclusion that, while using BDSM to cope with illness was positive for him and his work was intriuging, he (himself) is a self-centered asshole. Everything is about "me me me" while he pretends to want to submit to the will of the woman he claims to love (Sheree Rose). If he were not already dead, I would send him a hateful letter.