Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Not my best friend.

I have this really ugly side. As the years have come and gone, I've realized that a lot of humans share this trait so I don't feel particularly unique about it anymore. And I'm not surprised when I encounter it in its various unexpected forms.

For me, something that hasn't changed over time is that I still can't squish the motherfucker down my gullet far enough. The nasty dog crawls its shit stained, piss-soaked tail out of my guts more often then I would like.

This, I believe, is the crux of my unhappiness. Of my depression. When I subdue the dog, I live and don't question myself. I feel good. When the dogs chews threw its leash and bites off its own leg and growls through my psyche, I feel very, very un-good. Phony. Pretend. Like the dream when you take the stage for the recital but you've never rehearsed one step. I know the audience can tell I'm a fraud, but I keep dancing anyway chasing that fucking dog back into its cage.

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