I’m sick of my life.

Before you get all tight panty’ed or panties in a wad — same difference, same stupid saying —

I’m not going to off myself.

There will be no Plath like demise — I’ve got an electric cooker, besides.
And pills leave your corpse bloated.

I’m afraid of guns and I don’t much care for the sight of blood.

So no drama filled way outs.

I’m not sick of living — I’m sick of the way I live my life.

As much as I’d like to pretend I’m the DRIVER IN THE SEAT OF MY OWN DESTINY —
I may as well be driving an immobile arcade car.

Please deposit 50 cents.

I’m not going anywhere.
I’m not moving anywhere.
I’m not getting anywhere.

My wheels are still.

For some reason, somewhere along the way, I became distracted by the course,
And other drivers.

And replaying the scene from the local mc d’s where all the old veterans swap war stories, my fellow vets sit around empty beer bottles sharing of stories of how it used to be and do you remember that one time….?

Always something on our proverbial life plates. We’re always planning. There’s always a degree to chase, a song to play out, a masterpiece to paint, a story to write…

Next time, the stories change a little, still nothing accomplished, but this time we’re discussing ways to rid ourselves of the self imposed blocks holding ourselves back and we know we know we KNOW we should be doing it right now but it’s too (enter any of the following excuses here)
Expensive
Time-consuming
Hard
Much to do alone
Complicated to explain

Or worse yet, the denial. Once we know why we’re not doing it, we seem to have this to say like a broken train —
I know I can I think I can I will someday I’m working on it, I have to, I think I can, I will I will!!! I WILL

Just as soon as I get around to it.

Pathetic.

And I’m the worst.

Surprised even that I got off my couch and wrote this.

I’m failing.

And I have to find a way to save myself before I’m done.