S I C K

I'm writing about chopsticks and how I'm quickly getting sick of Panda Express. I'm getting sick of wood and the rice never being sticky enough. I'm sick of reality TV.

I'm sick of everyone owning smartphones. I'm sick of this world and it's mindless technology. I'm sick of work. I'm sick of stickering things, but I love the company. The people, that is. Not Seagull Book. I'm writing about feet and how I'm sick of standing on them all day.

I'm sick of the same old writing. My same old writing. I'm also sick of trying to be different, yet here I am. I'm actually kind of digging this 'writing every thought that pops into your head' idea but I'm sure tomorrow I'll be sick of it.  I'm writing about words and how I'm sick of the bad ones.

I'm so sick of you. I'm sick of myself. Choking here, honestly. Hacking up apologies like it's our usual disease. It's disgusting. Why can't we wake up and be completely heartfelt? Sometimes my heart feels anger, I'm sick of the way I hide that from you, I'm sick of the way I make excuses to reassure myself. I'm writing about you and how you've got me taking medication to make the sickness go away. It never goes away.