a short rant

** This was written during an anxiety attack

I’m sitting on the toilet, but it’s not like I’m using it for any actual function other than a pedestal for my pathetic self. it’s funny how an object can have so many different uses. A bed is meant for sleeping but can be used for avoidance. A toilet can be for shitting or for feeling like shit so you sit on it instead of a chair (which you deemed inappropriate since it makes you sit up straight— far too formal for self-deprecation.) a kitchen knife can be cutting or threatening someone, or to end a life. Life could be lived for yourself, or for the people around you. I wait until I feel my ass get numb from sitting on the slightly curved toilet lid. What am I doing? I could very well end my suffering any day in any way, yet I hang onto what my mortality gives. Perhaps it’s because I’m so sick of taking from the people around me that I might’ve just deluded myself into thinking that taking my life would just be too selfish. I once read a quote somewhere about how it’s okay to be a little selfish— but who’s to say how much is a little? I don’t want to kill myself, a suicide note drafted on a toilet isn’t as extravagant as I want my last words to be, but maybe my infatuation with leaving behind the right answers should be something that makes me cherish my life more. I don’t want to kill myself, it’s too much of a hassle and I like living, I think. I used to describe these thoughts as a rabbit hole where you only fall deeper and deeper— but I expect rabbit holes to hit a bottom eventually. Perhaps a better comparison would be that these thoughts are like the color black— with no beginning, end nor start.

My mother yells for my help to carry some groceries for her. I guess I’ll think about this some other day in another place. I tell her I want to have stir-fried greens for dinner.