dores positivas

This is my last cry for help. But oh, not really.

This is hardly a cry for help. It is a cry, of that I’m almost certain, but it isn’t help I seek. It is also unlikely that it is the last, for the end will be broadcasted. Only you will know the secret channel, so take note in your cellphone: 555-666-888-33… I forgot. I’m making it up. I’m making you up. I’m making me up, I’m faking my life and I’m faking my death for a much wider audience. This is life, a theater. This is my premature third act, though the play definitely goes on. I’m just an annoying, sorry-for-himself character the writer is trying to get rid of, because audiences dislike him anyway. I’m getting rid of life as a solution for my issues. I’m giving me up as an actor for my role (and if you want it, send me a letter to:

Yuri C.
Hell, 69
God’s Cute Little Ass

).

I’m giving you up as the only one worth living for, because my director keeps telling me I’m saying the wrong lines. How could I disagree? When it comes to making things work, I’m a stranger in a faraway land. I don’t speak your language, and I’m starting to believe I don’t speak mine either. You’re my mirror, a reflex, a personification of unreachable desire and I’m sicker than fuck of pretending knowing my issues is having any hope of seeing them resolved.

If my retirement is my choice, then so be it. “There ain’t no point in moving on until you’ve got somewhere to go”. And if you’ve got a nice self-help sentence to go with that, shove it deep up your ass, fists and all, no lubricant. And then, perhaps, you’ll feel how I feel about life.