Some of Us Just Suck

Thinking this life sucks the joy out of me the way a vampire bat sucks the blood out of a sleeping cow, I’m reminded of the leech that once attached itself to my leg and clung to me for hours before I felt an itch and realized it was slowly drinking me the way a child drinks a chocolate milk.

Some people I won’t mention suck like this too, I think, as they try to fit inside your shadow for hours on end, and by the end of the day you’re a husk of what you once were and wondering what happened to make you feel so hollow.

Last night I barely slept because thoughts of being betrayed by others kept intruding upon me slumber, inched their way along my hairy back and, with their little numbing bites, began slurping upon my peace and quiet until I had to get up just to feel normal again,

and yeah, I suppose this is me telling me how I betray myself, when it’s clear others also are at fault.

At the time I didn’t know why I arose from bed and began organizing a three-ring binder to bring to work in an effort to make myself feel more self-contained and impervious to spilling.

But when I finished functioning executively, I tried to go back to bed with my new found sense of completion, only to dream of anonymous coworkers threatening to incriminate me if I continued to be honest with them about how a Hershey bar is lightning on an individual’s feelings.

My ex-wife would have been right at home watching me twitch in semi-conscious torment, I told myself, while I imagined her silently sneaking under the front door of my studio after a twelve-year absence, and crawling toward my sleeping body to take whatever cow-like easygoingness I had left,

her wings unfolding across me, a new, more insidious kind of Desmodus rotundas.

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