I should be writing more.
I should be packing, not farting around Central Texas hoping to hang out with people who probably couldn’t care any less. I should be figuring out what I’m going to do after June 1, not drinking spendy coffee in North Austin. I should be dead by now, not weighing a quarter of a ton with no health insurance and a heart-shaped mole on my stomach.
I should never have come here.
I did a lot of things I shouldn’t do, and very few that I should. I have to gamify my hygiene because I need to remind myself that even though I never see other human beings, I should take a fucking shower. There’s a pain in my chest that I should investigate. I really hope I still have Tums in my pocket. I should check, but I won’t.
This has become a list of awful things proceeded with I statements. The flotsam of the internet is not my fucking therapist. I don’t have a fucking therapist.
I should be writing. More.