World's most pathetic drunk

I am writing this under copious amounts of Xanax, garnered after two straight days in the ER trying desperately to find a psych ward that will take me. None have open beds. I feel defeated and annoyed by my typing skills. I not apologize for needing the calm-down after all that medical fuckery. I do apologize ahead for massive typos.

I also can't find my jeans, to which seems the most annoying part of all of this for some reason. I also have the hiccups, which are maddening enough to drive one to homicide.

Fucking too long nails. Gotta trim them. It does not make for easy typing.

He's terrified I'll worried about being in the hospital. I'm less afraid of that, since that's the place I've been wanting to be in for two days now.

Jesse has gathered all the sharps, shaving razors included. I have no idea where he put them. Granted, there's a million broken projectiles that could do the trick. They're just harder and messier - but not impossible.

The pretty and the morbid comfort me. It only worries Jesse. But what helps him sleep does not help me sleep. Songs, videos, about passing into the void make me less afraid of dying in my sleep.

it seems impossible to keep up on an all the healthy things a person is supposed to do when you're sick. I'm not talking about the million doctors and shrink appointments. I'm talking about the meds, the balance, the side effects, the drunken stumble from room to room that would make less educated sure that I'd been pouring a fifth a day into my bloodstream. No such luck, though, I am the worst wold's drunk, stone cold sober.

I'd say I wish I could run away from all this, but I long ago learned the futility of such a gesture. Wherever you go, there you are. Superhuman speeds do nothing in a mad dash away from yourself.

Seriously, gotta trim down the nails. SO FUCKING ANNOYING. Also these damn hiccups.

I don't feel crazy. In, in fact, feel quite sane, if not drunk off my ass from my medications. Probably means I am an insane to diagnosable levels. How's that saying go? Only the sane doubt their sanity.

There is no doubting, only a dis-attached scan of crazy-acting actions I've been doing.

Slice of life writing. Nothing to prove a point or to communicate something. Just writing for the writing.

Maybe someday Rayhawk the peace will be there with writing. Maybe I can find something worthwhile to write when all my words are not spent just treading water. Its an exciting and terrifying venture.

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This is me, here, paying attention.

(...Sure beats the hell outta radio silence.)