Dear Suicide, Depression, and Bankruptcy (explicit)
Dear Suicide, Depression, and Bankruptcy,
I smelled the stench of all 3 of you but none of you bitches got me. I won, motherfuckers.
Let’s start with you, Suicide. You’d always tempt me, you bitch, when I was at my worst—scared, alone, and misunderstood in Iowa. Every day I’d worry that my life was going to blow by. My father, a person who was supposed to love me, ignored every interest I had, talked me out of college, and counted days on the calendar until I was 18 so he could stop paying for me. He’d do everything he could to make me believe creativity could never happen, just so I didn’t make him look like the loser he was and is. “How many people does that happen for?” he’d yell. I’d fight back as hard as I could, “It happens for the person who never quits!” It was more than a father/son thing. He threw every bit of negativity at me that he could. It hurt me to tears and it polluted my definition of love. And there you were—like an abusive lover, giving me an outlet wrapped in toxic pleasure.
I can’t believe I used to daydream about you. I’d put the blade to my wrist and let a little blood draw. Then I’d pussy out and take the blade to my forearm and let my flaccid body curl up on the bed.
But I cut off your head and killed your soul. I promised my last therapist, Kaitlyn, that I’d never mess with you. I don’t care if it was her job to build a relationship with me. I won’t break the emotion she gave me for you, ever. I win, motherfucker. You’re never going to get me.
And you, Depression? You’re a puppet on a string to me.
I learned long ago that decisions have returns—with time lapses. If I make the right choices today, I’ll feel great tomorrow, and you won’t even show up. When I work out, pursue my passion, and eat right, you're not even in the same ballpark as me. You’re lost in the sea of opportunity and pretty girls, motherfucker.
I own your bitch-ass so much that I’m going to let the whole world know what causes you. I know you’re in bed with Netflix, social media, and substance abuse. I’m young, ambitious, and the world’s starting to listen to me. I’m going to expose who you sleep with. Duces, bitch.
And you, Bankruptcy, yeah, I saw your beady eyes staring at me. You knew I had to put it all on the line several times before I discovered how it would work. You knew there were no loans for marketing healthy psychological content that involves a fictional weatherman. You watched me fall behind on taxes and rack up credit card debt. But I’m a resourceful dude, playboy. As soon as I found out how people wanted my creativity, I broke my lease, sold my car, and lived in a room. That mac and cheese tasted just fine compared to you following me for 7 years. Then I worked as a server at night and wrote a dope-ass book every second I wasn’t there. It’s selling AND I'm charging for workshops. Boom! How do multiple incomes to your face feel, bitch? Oh, and did I mention that I rent out the living room and the second bedroom of my apartment? What's Brandon’s rent? $Oh, it's 146. My tax debt is gone and the credit card debt is going down.
Oh, I’m sorry, were you not able to come up for air?
I’m going to use every resource I have to make sure you 3 never enter the lives of others.
You know who this is.
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