My truth and my fiction get so mixed up in my head that I forget, sometimes, what’s actually happened.
This is both true and false. That’s the best kind of fiction: sort with a grain of truth in it, and you make this whole pearl around one little thing that you know is true.
Wake to screaming
“I’m sick of seeing you
wallowing in your stupid
twisted misery- snap
the fuck out of it.”
There are things I will
things I never want to-
but the niggle remains:
how badly did I embarrass
myself, how many stupid things
flew out of my mouth independent
of my brain, how many times
did someone sigh or shake their head
as if to say, well there she goes
off the deep end again.
© Bridget Noonan, 2011.
So I chickened out of going to the cemetery yesterday, but I’m going today if it kills me. (haha, and if it does, good place for it eh? just send me off to the crematorium and shake me out somewhere nice)
This is, after all, the first four day stretch I have had off work in…….. months, possibly almost a year? I can do what I want when I want, dang it. And I wish that didn’t sound so much like I’m a teen stomping my foot.