September 15, 2005
And I sat there staring at my steaming muffin wondering was this it? As I often do, as I often do. Was this it? And what was the alternative? Drinking myself to sickness or selling myself for drugs that in turn took me, drove me, farther away from you as you stay here, sit here, walk here, talk here, telling me, “ if that’s what makes her happy, that’s what she should do to be happy.” Shit, happy this and happy that. What is happy? Where is happy? Is there a map to get there? No, no there’s no map and I know, we all know this. There is no formula or set of logical directions that will take us there… it is merely the second star to the right, the glass slipper and poison apples that take us to our dreams so that we may sleep. And I wonder would a bath solve my problems? Would the confusion between steam and fog through the window make me smile enough to say that I am happy? No and no bottom of a bottle would either. Not this muffin, not puking up this muffin or erasing this muffin entirely would make me happy either. No slamming doors will bring back fathers and no sorrowful faces with take away the last three years of depression. And so I snicker at the absurdity of my muffin and myself. Where does it end? Where did it begin? And no, there is no map.