Don’t get comfortable

It would be so easy to stay wrapped in the lonely arms of the Big Sad coiled into the bottom of my hole coddling this bottle of red wine. An old-fashioned cobblestone well which is now run dry, it lies atop a picturesque hill in the far corner of my mind.

I have been here so many times that there is an Amber-shaped imprint in the dried mud, about two inches deep and curled into the fetal position.

I feel the plump meat of my cheeks gently cradle the bones of my face as I rest onto the cool earth.

I take a slow, steady, deep breath of the musky dampness and think, “this is what it must feel like to be dead, minus the breathing thing.”

I drift in and out of consciousness, fantasizing about the end of all of my problems.

I know that there are a million reasons why I should keep on, but when my rose colored glasses crack, the world shows me deeper shades of blue than I ever knew existed.

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Being born and raised in the south should have made me more inbred and less tolerant, but something went wrong in the grand scheme of these damned rebels. I am; brutally honest, a bad driver with a record to prove it, a connoisseur of stand-up comedy, the eldest child, an aware procrastinator, semi-sweet, the result of my mother losing her virginity, easily excitable, a lover of music, a pretty shit liar, late to any event no matter what, myself without apology.

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