The day you die isn’t going to be something crazy or really life shattering for anyone aside from a splattering of friends, maybe some family invested in your existence. It’s going to be the last day you took a shit, took a shower, fucked your husband or wife and took that last drive to work. It’s probably not going to be anything particularly monumental, and very few of us will get any remembrance past the first few months or days after our passing. Whatever shadows we leave in terms of the people who grieve us get past things, as people do.

I suppose in many ways this knowledge fuels a certain anonymity in my existence. I rarely share much about myself or my life, aside from a few witticisms, no selfies and really just a terrible disdain for the world. I am trying to siphon that energy off and be happy with the outcomes of things, but is is getting harder when the world isn’t playing along exactly fair.

We get fucked over. And by we I mean Don, which in turn means We. I feel every punch to his ego, every flooring of his hope. I feel he wants to drown right now and there is everything right there making that the reasonable choice in some ways. He feels totally as if the world has forsaken him and in many facets he has removed himself from its path. Someone stole the moped he had built alternate fuel sources for, and I was investing the money into finishing it. And now we have no prototype and no thing to power. I can’t afford full rent, let alone money for another moped. He has cut himself to the most pleasant facets of other people, except me and all the pleasure that my body can give him.

It seems my words and love often ring hollow in his ears, as the story he often repeats to himself is that everyone hates him, and he never really keeps me out of that basket of blame. He has refused to leave the house, to get in the car…to do anything aside from hide in here and seethe at the unsettled and unfair nature of the energy in his life. I have tried to get him to focus on other things but he continues to tell me his recognition of his shit luck has nothing to do with the outcome of shit luck.

I want something better than what I’ve got and there has to be some fucking way to achieve it. I don’t give up easily and though this does seem to surprise many, I never stop trying. There’s a place of joy somewhere I can sit inside of, somewhere where people don’t hurt me or the people I love, but instead help, us, tying together the broken strings of hope that are so rare to grasp. I don’t even know how to get it anymore…as I work as much as I possibly can and always take any available overtime. But it’s beyond time and overtime…it is a universal fuck you in the face I despise because it doesn’t belong with me or my end.