Choo Choo 

A guy I don’t remember just messaged me on Facebook asking if I still write poetry. 

No, I don’t. Because things got bad and I don’t know how to make something pretty out of those situations anymore. I envy the version of myself that was good at creating something nice out of something so bad. 

I’m thinking about the time I carved the words “the light at the end of the tunnel is a train” into the wall of the common area in the rehab facility I was at. Those aren’t my words, but they seemed appropriate at the time. 

When I was about 14 and I read It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini, I wanted to go to a mental hospital just to see what it was like. In case you’re wondering: contrary to what the book says, the food in there is great. 

I was mad at Ned Vizzini for killing himself for quite some time, but it’s pretty screwed up of me to be mad at a depressed dead guy just because I was out of reading material.

I don’t know where I’m going with any of this.

Uh, I’m still sober. Although hurricane Harvey making my home bikini bottom has definitely led to me craving a bit. Thankfully, the road to the dope house is under water anyways. Not that I couldn’t find shit if I wanted to. 

I’m currently staying at an old lady’s house. Her name is Georgia Flowers and she’s been in a nursing home for the last year but her son said I could stay here.

Her son is also my (new) step dad’s father. Him and his wife are staying here with me. This would be less uncomfortable if I had met them prior to hurricane Harvey, but unfortunately that’s not the case and I am a ball of anxiety. 

I feel like I have to ask for permission to breathe. Use the toilet. Use the shampoo in the bathroom. 

I haven’t slept much since I got to Georgia’s, which isn’t totally abnormal. I don’t sleep much in general, but now it’s a result of feeling (extremely) out of place.

I didn’t realize how easily wigged out I can get until the storm hit and it forced me to be around people more. 

I keep trying to distract myself so that I don’t start dwelling, but I’m running out of things to do. I know all the things I lost due to the hurricane are replacable material items, but considering how much moving around I’ve done over the course of the 20 years I’ve been alive, I’m really fucking tired of changing my address.

I’m tired of trying to make a home out of places and I’m pretty pissed off that I can’t fully explain what I mean unless I fully explain my past experiences. 

My head is all over the fucking place  and I don’t know how to end this. 

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