Friday, December 09, 2011

So it's here once again. I turn 31 and I'm nowhere near having my shit together like I hoped I would by now. I've had my share of setbacks, all of which are entirely my fault. This has easily been the worst year of my life and I'm pretty sure things aren't going to get any better, so I'm hoping this bottle of whiskey gives me alcohol poisoning and kills me.

I lost the use of my left arm and hand. The doctors don't seem to have much faith that I'll get much back, even with work. The look on the doctor's face when asked that very question said it all for me.

As a result of the arm thing, I've basically lost my job. They're paying me to not work and look for a new job, but I don't like being a bum and accepting money I haven't earned. The job search really sucks because I don't want this kind of work anymore.I don't like being blamed for shitty, out of date equipment that won't get replaced due to budget constraints.

My girl left me. This hurt the most. I still wake up crying most mornings, which she's going to think is hilarious. At this point, I'm fairly certain I'm already dead. I think the doctors allowed me to die like I begged them to do when they told me my sodium level was too low and they wouldn't bring me McDonald's french fries or one of those P.F. Chang's microwave meals that have a billion percent of your daily sodium needs. I could've used a Double Biggie w/Che meal from Chips, right Ryan? Marshfield's Chip's fries are better, sorry man. Bad Religion asks the question How could hell be any worse and I'd like to know, as well. They put me on anti-depressants, even after I declined to take them. My family had Hanna ask me to take them because I wasn't about to say no to the girl I loved and they knew it. What they didn't know was that she was planning to leave me. I'm not trusting any of those people again. I'm pretty sure I'm in hell because Hanna won't even respond to me anymore. I don't know who this fucking shrew is, but it's not the Hanna I know. She's not a bad person, really, but hell's version of her is.

My dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He told me shortly after getting out of the hospital and I choked on my sandwich when I heard it because I didn't need that at that point. He got his asshole removed and the doctors say he's doing well now. I don't trust doctors, though, they don't know what the fuck they're talking about.

I gained 4o pounds, 31 of which I've lost at last check this morning. I'd like to believe that remaining 9 is muscle. I'd like to believe that, but my muffin top says otherwise. I've got some kick ass stretch marks out of it, though, which ensure no woman will find me attractive ever again. That doesn't matter because I haven't found any of them attractive for months, either.

My dad is getting divorced. Again. I owe my brother money, because I bet him 12 years ago they wouldn't make it past 5 years. How this is my fault, I don't know. Perhaps I'm a virus infecting everybody else's lives and making them shitty. Yeah, that's it.

So, if this bottle succeeds in killing me, if I'm not already dead and in hell, I'm sorry but I don't want to do this any more. I don't like going to the gym every day and having the trainers with the chiseled bodies, even the women, scowl at me because I don't drink those disgusting whey protein drinks. If I wind up in a coma, have them unplug me and play Pavarotti singing Nessun Dorma with a video of cops beating hippies with truncheons and I promise I'll leave exactly when Pavarotti hits the crescendo.

said Tommy T. at 11:59 PM - #

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