I’m not her any more. I’m not.
I used to be her…
the one who blogged about being in a tar pit;
the one who wrote about how I was mad at God;
the one who got angry at my messy, sad excuse for a life;
the one who questioned if anyone was reading what I wrote, let alone actually cared about it…or her;
the one who did a little of this and did a little of that and wrote when she felt like it;
the one who mostly ranted that she wasn’t getting her own way.
But I’m not her any more. I’m me. Oh, she is still in there somewhere, yammering from a mental trunk that “This isn’t funny any more!” as she cries to be let back out.
But I’m driving the car now and I’m just going to keep her in there until she passes out from the lack of oxygen.
I’m not feeding her any more.
I’m not listening to her any more.
I’m not living with her any more.
I’m killing her off.
I’m not like that any more.
I’m no longer satisfied with the depressed life.
I’m no longer satisfied with the sad excuses, the lame, lackluster-ness.
I’m not letting her back out and she can’t make me. She can’t make me. She can’t make me.
I’m quitting that. All that.
That kind of melancholy.
That depression drama where a hangnail is enough to unhinge me.
That unrelenting gloom where even Wednesday Addams might be looking for the nearest exit.
So, sad lady in the trunk, whining that you’re feeling a bit faint from dehydration and begging me to please not drive so fast because you’re hitting your head and it hurts so bad.
Shut the fuck up.
I’ve had enough of you.
I’m going to be happy now.