The only person who could do it

Saturday 11/22/25

No one in publishing would let the story that this comes from be seen, because it was done by the only person who could have done it, but as I've said, it's special. It's not enough to say that. But there's not anything else I can do right now.

Never used to envy old people, but I bet it’s comforting if you aren’t dependent on anyone and live on your own terms. Clean yourself. Get the names of your kids right every time. Drive to meet a friend for “a nice little lunch.” At least you’re nearly done. Take your chances after that.

That’s what slaves did, right? Sang spirituals looking forward to the next world. Were they that confident? What did they know and how did they know it? 

Is it faith that helps you know? What’s that like? Is faith hope? Or is having hope an act of faith? Can there be one without the other? Which is stronger? Or is it which is crazier?

Or can you just be that miserable that you’ll try to believe anything that makes you hurt the smallest amount less?

Delusions. Lies. The more general the better, so you can say, “I’m in there! I’m covered!” and you don’t feel left out. Left behind. Irrelevant. Gross. Worthless. Unloveable. Unimportant. Unheard. Unseen. Nonexistent. Undeserving. Worse.

It’s easier to project than to be found, so you go with the better odds. The bird you can force into your hand instead of needing it to land. You squeeze it, feel its beak dig into your skin as the blood runs towards your wrist and you take the blood and paint whatever the fuck you want to paint on the whiteboard and say, “This is true! So says me! I drew that and you can’t deny its existence!”

I hate when I get like this. And how much longer it seems to last each time. The extending stages of a takeover until a state of permanence is achieved and I can’t go back to being a person who isn’t there anymore.

I’d love to see someone else manage, though. Good luck to them. Good luck, lady. Fella. The village my sister says it takes to raise a kid “now more than ever” as she leaves without them for another adult girls’ weekend at someone’s parents’ lake house.

Hate it hate it hate it. Hate is not a word we use in this house, young lady. Hate it. Hate, hate, hate.

Who the hell am I at this point? Am I this? Some frazzled bitch who only shows her real face to herself. Sometimes. Doesn’t dare let it be seen by anyone. Maybe I’ve lost the ability to be anything else and now I’m just something out there. An uncountable number. Or maybe that ability doesn’t exist anymore as this thing that humans might have and instead it’s a matter of whether you know it or not and it’s so much easier if you don’t.

It would be so much worse if the world is the problem instead of you. The ultimate nightmare. Because you could just end. You could go away. You could change. You could sacrifice yourself. The world can’t. You can’t banish the world. Compel it. Force it. Reason with it. Make as though you’re at the gym helping it with a spot at the bench press. The world can’t volunteer to give itself up for a greater good. And if it did, it’d be taking you with it anyway.