  Home. 50+ sneezes. Upsetting email and response back. Self-loathing meter = red lining. Medication level dwindling = feelings of a mild-grade flu for two weeks and counting. Nose blowing would feel better if I could break my sinus cavity with my hands. Guilt for leaving a dying cat home alone for two days.
Want to take everything thats fucked, line it up, and shoot a bullet through it. Bad to irreparably so. Therapy on the horizon. Weeks away still, but its there already. Knowing what that will bring. Exhuming graves and inviting my findings to dinner. And coming to the same old conclusions as before; theyre not going to find a better burial as the ones I gave years ago. Its not good for me to see the decay. The measure of time and the mirrored rot in my own soul. Therapy = Insult added to injury. Im going to get yet another professional in front of me whos either going to start crying because she cant help me and dont know how to handle it or theyre going to sit there like a spot on the carpet, their ineptitude apparent to all, calling for eradication, yet not addressing it. And Im going to spend a whole lot more time in that space The space so dark, I dont want to talk about it.
Not tonight. I have to be presentable tomorrow. Ive a lifetime ahead of me of this sort of aporia. Misery and a flushing toilet on my spirit meets the community who claims to be of help. Who I end up making cry. Or brushing me off to experts who also start to cry. Thankfully, beer tastes like help tonight. 
