fuck you, ghost basket

Woah man, where am I?
I run my moist palm down my face. Why do I even do that? What good does it possibly do? Anyway, it's a ritual, an integral part of waking up on the floor and feeling like shit. Maybe it's action imitating emotion. Maybe it doesn't matter at all.

My stomach wakes up too. Making all sorts of gurgly noises. It's sloshing around some stale beer from last nite, hoping for some breakfast. Who knows what it really wants, though. Cuz my gut definitely just wants a cup of coffee.

Wait a couple of minutes, coffee or not, and my brain starts kicking into gear. Bad news bears for me though, because all it wants to do is sulk, long, or bring up a bunch of really nice things that are not longer possible.

It's all ghost pains, though. Makes no sense at all. I've got a pain in my gut and hole in my brain because I did what I knew was right.
Makes no sense.
I cut the threads that were keeping the picnic basket from falling off the edge of the cliff. It's a waste of red wine, but I was told not to cry over spilt liquids. Too late for that good advice, I guess.

Ghost pains. I couldn't get to the basket, but I knew there was some good shit in there, missing pieces of myself, good books, discovery, full course meals, and a lot of mind-blowing sex. Amazing that it could fit all in there. Suppressed giggles aside, and continuing with a really shitty metaphor, I knew full well that this basket wasn't well constructed, obviously made by a white person who thought they could do anything with the help of the internet. The basket was also full of poison, not down to the marrow of the thing, but sprinkled around on various amenities so you could never be too sure of what you were sinking your teeth into.

So yeah, SPLAT. Then came that feeling of vertigo, looking over the cliff, really considering the pros and cons of jumping after it. To the passerby it's obvious that the man on the edge of the cliff is fucking nuts, and he is, but the jump sure is attractive.

Makes no sense. It shouldn't hurt to let go of what I didn't have, but I guess you really don't have to touch someone to punch them in the gut and make them puke blood. I wonder what else you can do an ocean apart.

How's it going, man? Like hell, but still kickin'. Singin' lullabyes and spitting out my own teeth. Thinkin' about pain so much it makes me sound like the goth girl in middle school. I'm pretty sure I'm plagiarizing her work.

I'm going to keep on walking, not a clue where I'm going, 'can't feel my legs, totally half-smiling. Trying to be angry so I don't have to be sad, but anger isn't my nature, and sadness is usually what I have to work with. Nothing new there, I'll have my own damn picnic in fucking stormy, hot, late August. I'll be laughing while it's pouring, I'm not even worried about eating. I'm a child in a tantrum, but grown enough you can't stop me.

Oh yeah, and I'm glad you didn't hesitate to go back to your whore.
You've always been a gentleman, you piece of shit basket.