I would have done it all with you

You know I love Christmas. I hate writing this shit on here because you think it’s for you, but it’s not, it’s for me.

I’m sitting on the toilet taking a shit thinking about how I just want to get fucked raging drunk and eat 20 pounds of burritos but I’m so fucking constipated and “responsible” at this point in my life I can’t even do that when my whole body is begging me to. 

What about the headaches? What about my relentless hangover brain stream about how I’m the biggest piece of shit on the planet for the entirety of the next week because of like fucking dehydration or something? 

I can’t, I fucking can’t… then I imagine your id antagonizing me, and how it would influence me in the most beautiful and decadent ways, and my id takes off in a fervor of delight, raging into a fifth of vodka, eating entire pizzas in the span of 10 minutes, sifting through garbage for something in an unmarked baggie, and now we’re off to the races in love, blowing dust on all those sad mother fuckers who don’t know how to shake off the shackles of their normalcy, complacency, dying inside themselves while we fucking bathe in our own shit. We’re monsters. We’re repulsive. We’re not worried. We’re fucking gross and we love it. WHAT FREEDOM. 

What a shame it’s not real.

We are small. We are simple. We are just like everyone else; aging, dying, ugly. 

Maybe it’s because it’s the holidays but whenever I start thinking about a turkey and the thermostat set at 70 I just want to crawl under the covers with you. You is my imagination. I can always do it any way I want with you.

I saw you messaged me on reddit. You can stop doing that. I’ll never respond. We’re never going to be together. This was never going to be real. Leave me alone forever.