The people interested in my drugs aren’t subtle. Yet they put on a face, nonchalant as date rapists. I know the drill. Feed me the extent to which you don’t need what I have. Except, I’ve done this long enough to know what I have. I can prorate the mind expansion but only at my own discretion. I either get love or cash. My semi-libertarian upbringing doesn’t allow much wiggle room between the two. I don’t deal in things I can’t talk intelligently about. I’m fairly sure my great great grandfather was the same way when he negotiated for his land. I’m not ashamed of my past. I simply won’t rely on it.

The kryptonite I possess is because of blood money. Despite his sex appeal, I can’t invest in the Lex Luthor side of things. I’d rather die honorable than live in guilt. The amount of acid paper I own could dose me into an oblivion that won’t recognize the entropy. I’ll embrace my future the way kamikaze pilots volunteer to fly. If my pain helps anyone understand that just hanging on makes all the difference, believe that. I’m not able to tell you why it matters but trust me, it does. I’ve seen the side of giving up and cashing in. It’s boring, at best.

Becoming that person talking to herself on the sidewalk, I ask myself, “Why do you take up space? If you are truly worthless then why not do something about it?” I chortle and respond, “If I could do something about it, don’t you think I’d fix what’s wrong? I languish here between life and death simply because I’ve lived too long. I know what it will do to others if I give up. With some stubbornness and tact, my death might inspire action but without clarity it can just as easily spread more mediocrity. Narcissistic motivations are the greatest threat and anyone addicted to attention needs to check themselves before they, well… you know.

I don’t want attention. I only want empathy. Be Nice Or Leave, Motherfuckers.