My house is haunted.
It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Nobody believes me.
We have our own place now, Charles and Faraday and I. An actual house. Like a real family. I have free reign to put my posters and action figures anywhere. I’m allowed to draw on (some of) the walls. I have at least one someone to talk at when I’m all alone. Sometimes, if I lay out sweets, it even hugs me. (I think.) ((I, uh…. I sure hope that’s what it’s doing.))
It’s been raining so much this week. It’s going to be storming again any minute now. I'd go out and lay in it, if I didn't worry about the lightning.
Colbert’s on five nights a week. They finally put Negan in TWD, and he’s perfectly, perfectly cast.
Pickles has an awesome little girlfriend, and I’m so happy for him.
There are a whole bunch of baby bunnies in the backyard. One's right outside the window, nibblin' away at the grass. It's so fucking cute, I just want to shake its little face.
There's a brand new bag of chips in front of me.
I earn all the weed I could ever want, each full week I’m a good boy and go to class every day.
I think my teachers and classmates like me. I really hope so. I’m slow, but doing somewhat decently in school.
In a year or two, I’ll be able to afford my own drugs. Buy my own tattoos for my birthdays. Fill up my damn car all the way each time without feeling guilty as fuck about using other people’s money for everything. Put my own cash in my bank account. Take my boyfriend out for expensive dinners every weekend. Get a dog. Get a goddamn little puppy. A fuzzy little fucker named Zombie. He’ll grow into a small-horse-sized abomination. That mutt is also all I’ve ever wanted. He’s all we need to complete our little family.
Bowie’s gone, and my heart still aches. It will for forever.
That’s pretty much the only bad thing, really.
That.
Hearing horrific, soul-murdering grammar every day.
No puppies.
Arby’s commercials.
A fucked up hip from imitating Dance Moms.
Who got killed on the last Walking Dead, and having to wait till October to hear the devastating news.
OCD. ADD. A lifetime of insomnia. Unprovoked mood swings.
A sometimes-crippling fear of social interaction.
Anxiety like a neurotic old Jewish woman.
Other than, there’s so much for me to be happy about. I do know that. I just wish my brain would get it; let me just be happy for good. It should be manageable. How do adults do this shit? How do normal people manage to function right? I’ve never understood. It’s warm and comfortable outside. Tumultuous and ravaged inside. Don’t know how to fix it. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it slips out on accident before I even realize what I've said. Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful for the love and stability I have, and I hope with all my heart that it lasts forever. I’ll do just about anything to keep it that way.
We have our own place now, Charles and Faraday and I. An actual house. Like a real family. I have free reign to put my posters and action figures anywhere. I’m allowed to draw on (some of) the walls. I have at least one someone to talk at when I’m all alone. Sometimes, if I lay out sweets, it even hugs me. (I think.) ((I, uh…. I sure hope that’s what it’s doing.))
It’s been raining so much this week. It’s going to be storming again any minute now. I'd go out and lay in it, if I didn't worry about the lightning.
Colbert’s on five nights a week. They finally put Negan in TWD, and he’s perfectly, perfectly cast.
Pickles has an awesome little girlfriend, and I’m so happy for him.
There are a whole bunch of baby bunnies in the backyard. One's right outside the window, nibblin' away at the grass. It's so fucking cute, I just want to shake its little face.
There's a brand new bag of chips in front of me.
I earn all the weed I could ever want, each full week I’m a good boy and go to class every day.
I think my teachers and classmates like me. I really hope so. I’m slow, but doing somewhat decently in school.
In a year or two, I’ll be able to afford my own drugs. Buy my own tattoos for my birthdays. Fill up my damn car all the way each time without feeling guilty as fuck about using other people’s money for everything. Put my own cash in my bank account. Take my boyfriend out for expensive dinners every weekend. Get a dog. Get a goddamn little puppy. A fuzzy little fucker named Zombie. He’ll grow into a small-horse-sized abomination. That mutt is also all I’ve ever wanted. He’s all we need to complete our little family.
Bowie’s gone, and my heart still aches. It will for forever.
That’s pretty much the only bad thing, really.
That.
Hearing horrific, soul-murdering grammar every day.
No puppies.
Arby’s commercials.
A fucked up hip from imitating Dance Moms.
Who got killed on the last Walking Dead, and having to wait till October to hear the devastating news.
OCD. ADD. A lifetime of insomnia. Unprovoked mood swings.
A sometimes-crippling fear of social interaction.
Anxiety like a neurotic old Jewish woman.
Other than, there’s so much for me to be happy about. I do know that. I just wish my brain would get it; let me just be happy for good. It should be manageable. How do adults do this shit? How do normal people manage to function right? I’ve never understood. It’s warm and comfortable outside. Tumultuous and ravaged inside. Don’t know how to fix it. I try not to be negative, but sometimes it slips out on accident before I even realize what I've said. Don’t get me wrong. I’m very grateful for the love and stability I have, and I hope with all my heart that it lasts forever. I’ll do just about anything to keep it that way.