Life as a really bad soap opera.

There’s no more surprises.  The conclusion is a little overdue.  Finding meaning is like grasping at straws.  Not even straws.  Those thin little brown, two-holed, stir-stick-straws that come with coffee and I’ve never really come to functionally understand.  Those straws are a parody on life in their own right.

I pushed my sister.

It was awful.  I thought it was almost funny, the way she wrapped around the arm of my couch before falling off the adjacent side of it.  It wasn’t funny.  It was pathetic.

It wasn’t even in slow motion.  It just happened as though it has happened a million times before….  Had it?  I don’t think so.

My conscience is foggy.  I pushed my sister and didn’t feel guilty, and I feel guilty about that.  Right?  Does that make me better?  It doesn’t feel like it does.

I mostly just feel empty.  But why should I feel anything?  Why do I care?  Obviously I felt angry, now what is she feeling?  Is she feeling like I failed as her brother as much as I feel I have been failing, failed, and will fail again at being…. a person?

What is a person?  Do people really make mistakes?  Is this forgivable?  Are they?

I feel very wronged.  I was hurt, so I lashed out.  I was let down.  I don’t want people in my life anymore.  People are bad company.  But I need people to live.  Money doesn’t grow on trees.  Experience doesn’t grow on trees.  It all grows on people.  Lets face it, I’m not sustaining myself.

I’m a user.  I’m addicted to people.  They are so bad for me but I need them.  But what am I even using people for?  What is it that I’m doing to make everything okay for me in the end?  Is that what life is supposed to look like?  You use my back, I’ll use yours?  Something like that.  That’s not living.  I should know, right?

I pushed my sister.  She cried and she left.  I wrote about it and am going to sleep on a bed of nails.

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