if you tell me i'm fat, i'm probably going to cry when i get home. i know i'm fat. i know i should eat better and exercise and stop buying mcdonalds when i have a hole i need to fill inside. that's this whole thing. but you coming out and being all, "you need to lose weight, because you're fat." that fucking hurts. no amount of fat is going to cushion that punch to my tummy.
why do people go to the drive-thru and order like 19 meals? just go inside! there's an inside there, and you can all eat together and sit on uncomfortable chairs while you eat your shit-food. some of us need to go home, so no one can see us eat shit food day after day while hoping the stupid organic engines just clog up and kill us.
i've been thinking about suicide a lot more than is probably healthy. i should go to therapy. my friend wants me to visit for a vacation, but isn't going to take time off so we can hang out together. i think she wants me to goad her lazy husband into doing stuff, but i don't think i can deal with that expectation the way i am. and i don't know if i can just beg out on this without alienating the only person who tries to talk to me ever.
i wish i could just not wake up and let everyone else deal with the messes i've made.
in case that happens: "exhibition" ends on a super depressing point, but in a way that if you're me, you accept as a stunning redemption.
"spa treatment" will never end, because i will never get to the point where they re-commit themselves for more shit. because i'm lazy.
the short play:
A: This week ended, all fears begone for us;
let those who tarry, yet enjoy their rest,
this work goes on eternally, go forth,
enjoy this long weekend for all to love.
S: Shall we write a story grand? Late have we
forgotten our last goals, to live and love,
and spread such love to all that share our view,
that in love, may all that is weird, be free.
But wait! I spy our water sadly low,
still yet just this bottle found, dry our home:
let us go forth and buy bottles a-new,
bottles to drink and share and love, I pray.
A: Shall we postpone the stories? Let them all
gather formless and grey? Sit unloved now,
to await a glorious day? How then,
shall we answer our friends? Their love awaits?
S: Fuck them, fuck all, fuck all in the ass, shall
we dwell upon their goals, upon their schemes?
Or shall our stories breathe the life we give,
and soar into the sky we light with stars?
ok, that's enough of that. seriously. fake shakespeare is harder than i thought it.
so much counting.
the third-to-last sentence only works with one pronunciation of "seriously"
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