Another diary piece

[Bodey]

I got blood upon my fingertips for pickin at my lips like this. Anxiousness? Consider this: how cold do I think winter is? My attitude? I'm sick of it. I act as if it's cyphalis and insist I can't get rid of it. An idiot, too fixed on shit that I'm stripped from ever fixin shit. Livid as I bawl from self-inflicted walls and the hit-or-miss I take with every sip of alcohol. Slammin refrigerator doors til a jar of pickles hit the floor... The imbecile of course is too late to show remorse. My girl's a bit abused, but she still kisses me by noon. I can't stop hittin snooze, since the wind blowin in smells just like pickle juice. A distinctive stench that stiffens when you remember last nights wicked wench. How did it go again? You don't see how it can make much sense. But here we are again, up by ourselves as the clock hits ten...minutes of four- Stress can be intense. Especially when your work status falls under suspense. It's pathetic though, how it'd be completely ethical for them to take you off the schedule, how they can simply let ya go. Something so eventual, my résumé is nothing more than a repented note. Don't ask how I get so negative, these nonstop thoughts embedded in arsenic poisons, heroin, garbage's loins are pedalin, makin me feel I'm no better than a homeless junkie settled-in. Take a couple of saltine crackers, slap it with cheese after, straight make me a sandwich. A late-night snacker turns her dreams to disasters, sanity's crazily famished