tell me a joke

“I break apart,” I answered.

This is the answer I gave my friend when she asked how I do ‘it’.

It’s the truth.

I exist in pieces and don’t care to admit it out loud. I’m not sure what it really says about me. I tend to think it looks easy to others simply because I’m not batshit crazy. Not overtly anyway.

It’s not easy. None of it easy. And make no mistake. It’s not easy for anyone.

Folks tell themselves that this thing or that thing or this person or that person makes it easy but that’s a load of crap. I’ve met a billion people and none of them feel to have their shit together, which is a larger statement about the pressure folks feel about having their shit together without even knowing what that means.

“You can’t exist in this world and not be broken apart,” I explained.

“But you do get to decide what you do with the pieces. If you can direct ’em toward love then you’re good to go. Game over. Everyone wins,” I continued.


I sigh not really caring what the silence means cause I’ve lost interest in her question and everyone’s venture toward wisdom. I’m still counting in worldly time and am disappointed that again years have passed since anyone has been inside of me. I miss what she says so she repeats herself.

Lunch. Oh yeah. Sure. Calendar. Time. Date. Double? Huh.

“For sure,” I reply knowing that two days before I’ll cancel.

I wonder if double-dating is for bitches or if it’s a polyamory setup. Last time I double-dated I wanted to stab my ex in his eyeballs with my fork. It wasn’t until that double-date that I realized we should never have been together, maybe because it was so clearly reflected in the other couples eyes. I do believe that motherfucker insulted me and that the husband of the other couple complimented me in a volley of correction. I should have stabbed him but instead just smiled.

If you stay with the wrong person too long you can easily forget the genetics behind a smile.

Today has been a mixed bag. I’m partially sad and partially numb. Anxiety is creating an unnerving rumble in my stomach. I want to cry but I won’t, mainly cause it’s pointless. Think I’m just tired of talking to myself and pretending Alexa is a friend I can always turn to for a stupid joke.

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