Self-checkout
Someone said I swear a lot.
Which I do. But they referenced it to a group chat where I said … “damn.”
Said person also said they won’t watch one of my favorite ’80s movies because there is too much sex.
You know, if I am the sum total of the five people with whom I spend the most time, it’s basically a religious nut, Heifer, and the idiots in my complex.
God or something help me please.
I texted my cousin yesterday about a non-work struggle I was having. I said promise me if this situation gets any worse, you’ll Cricket Noem me.
Speaking of inappropriate jokes, I noticed Faceypages hasn’t been showing me an ex who I pretty much consider a therapist on retainer. I pay, and I get some support or companionship in return.
He did get me through one of my friends taking their own life not long ago. That one fucked me up pretty good. So, the hourly rate was worth it on that one.
Anyway I guess FB had the good sense to digitally sever this relationship.
Not surprisingly, he was writing about a friend who took his life young. Which honestly always touched me, that this bright boy didn’t see that light.
“Nothing you love is lost. Not really. Things, people—they always go away, sooner or later. You can’t hold them, any more than you can hold moonlight. But if they’ve touched you, if they’re inside you, then they’re still yours. The only things you ever really have are the ones you hold inside your heart.” — Bruce Coville
And of course on the inappropriate front, he referred to the man’s suicide as “self-checkout.”
I wasn’t offended. In fact, it made me plot about how I can use it in a sentence to activate someone at work whose voice makes my lady balls retract.
I got to thinking a lot about self-checkout. Like, at what point do you say enough with the pain, physical and mental?
Why isn’t there an award when you realize there is no life in quality of life anymore?
No, we want to force women to have babies and we want to force sick people to hang on and die a slow death with incompetent/lax “healthcare” till we finally die of a heart attack or pulmonary embolism or aneurysm that develops as a result of the pain and/or stress.
Seriously, it’s noble to say enough. To not let doctors let you down anymore.
Yes it might hurt people around us. But they’ll get over it.
We miss our friends. And we are messed up about it. But, there are more things to fuck up and fuck us up ahead.
Plus, I can bet you that the top five people I loathe most will be more revered than ever once we can’t hear their gonad-shrinking shrieks anymore.
As for me, I doubt anyone would notice. Shit, my payroll system told me to set up a trust since I can’t be my own beneficiary.
Who TF else do I trust to make these decisions? I had Facebook Boy as my legacy contact.
But I happen to have some cash left after what I’ve spent on Eras Tour merch, who do I want to have it? Alexandria? Becca? Riley? The street cats?
I swear what keeps me alive is it is more goddamnmed complicated to die than it is to live.
Yes, I said god AND damn. In the same word, gasp!