BP #3

I refuse to not get enough sleep anymore.

It’s just not worth it.

It’s not worth the grumpy ass attitude in the morning from me which then radiates out to the rest of the world.

I don’t care if I’m not being productive enough O’ world that demands I keep producing so much…?

I’m just fucking done with it.

I’m fucking done trying to be perfect.

I’m fucking done biting my nails because of it.

I’m fucking done living my life to please somebody else’s conception of what makes a good life.

Fuck it if we don’t all sit at the same time around the dinner table. Hell, at least we’re not eating out all the time.

Fuck it if I’m not making $75K/year which apparently is the amount you’re supposed to make in Washington state in order to achieve relative happiness.

Fuck it if I’m not doing enough to keep all balls juggling in the air, parenting duties upheld, self duties maintained, exercise regimen, caffeine intake, bill payment, retirement outlook, online dating profile updated, fiscal budget trimmed of excess fat, yada yada phou phou crap.

Fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it fuckity fuckity fuck fuck.

All I know and all I figured out today that truly makes me happy is art, is poetry, is being creative, is writing bad poetry. Poetry so bad that nobody would dare publish it, let alone read it. Poetry so bad that it makes you pee blood from your eyes. Permission to write crap just because you gotta get it out. Fuck it if it’s not perfect. Fuck it. I feel better and that’s a fact. Nobody can fuck with that.


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