If I'm not around one morning, this will be why.

I will have finally done what I should have done a very long time ago. That's cool, though. Really.

I've spread my genes (multiply, apparently), and the kiddos are healthy, happy, loved.  I've been in a signed band; I've been a professional artist; I've been a published poet and author; I've achieved some degree of academic notoriety in my chosen profession.

Pic un-fucking-related, but I will miss this...

I've also dragged myself up from fuck-all nothing; I've survived cancer...three times, including the last one which should have killed me (even down to planning the spreading of the ashes); I live in excruciating pain everyday, be it complications from Chemo, the crippling drug-induced arthritis, or the fibromyalgia (which, they think may be Lou Gherig's, but I'm too big of a pussy to affirm that death warrant).  I've never condemned or judged anyone for embracing that emptiness that must surely greet us all one day, and I would ask none in return.

 

Shit...too late for this one...

This is rock bottom kids, and I don't know if I can carry on. So, this is not some horseshit call for help or whatever they call afternoon specials these days...sometimes I'm just disinclined to go on.

 

Put a fucking fork in me...I'm done.

Manic? Depressive? Chronic, crippling, life-altering, mind-distorting pain? Guilty as charged. But, this is my life, this is my therapy, and neither have worked thus far. And, I reserve the right, as my own rational agent to do with it what I may. That's my self-determination. Christians are big on free will. Try this one on for size motherfuckers.

I will be cremated, but my tombstone (if Monkey has enough $$) will read "He wanted to enjoy life...it just didn't work out).

BONUS:  Lyrics go now:

Fool enough to almost be it
Cool enough to not quite see it, doomed
Pick your pocket full of sorrow
Run away with me tomorrow, June

We'll try and ease the pain
Somehow we'll feel the same
Well, no one knows
Where our secrets go

I send a heart to all my dearies
When your life is so, so dreary, dream
I'm rumored to the straight and narrow
While the harlots of my perils scream

And I fail
But when I can, I will
Try to understand
That when I can, I will

Mother, weep the years I'm missing
All our time can't be given back
Shut my mouth and strike the demons
Cursed you and your reasons
Out of hand and out of season
Out of love and out of feeling so bad

When I can, I will
Words defy the plans
When I can, I will

Fool enough to almost be it
And cool enough to not quite see it
And old enough to always feel this
Always old, I'll always feel this

No more promise no more sorrow
No longer will I follow
Can anybody hear me
I just want to be me
When I can, I will
Try to understand
That when I can, I will 

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