Bitch Gotta Get Beat

The northern prairie path is lined by bare white trees, stretching straight into the sky over a long dip and an even longer hill that just keeps running up and away. My feet run with it and over the next hill the burly voice beckons for me to come ever swifter, to just throw myself into its arms. It's twilight and the place seems stuck in a small town post-apocalypse, our everyday lives only evidenced by the inanimate objects waiting to be played with. The ghosts haunt these corners and I feel them, but they are nothing more than mist in the early morning fog.

There's a synthetic mind ready to snap placed between darting eyes and deafening ears, a numb tongue from too much raw smoke, too many raw words. It has snowed today and it's been a couple days since I last checked in. And trust me, I haven't been sure if I'd be checking in again. This mind is too close to the brink of what one can take-in at once.

My mum has shingles, which she says can be very serious. It's gotten colder lately, and I've been preoccupied by tremendously ambitious plans for the next eight months. I confessed the last year to her, just everything that has changed in me and everything that I want to change. I'm not going to give up this time, I'm going to see it through to whatever end it takes me. It's either going to push me over the edge where I"ll fall or fly, or I'll merely recede back into the mediocrity that has been my existence since long before I can remember. But I would jump into oblivion in a heartbeat rather than go back to what I was before.

In other less profound news, I've been having real issues at work. My manager has been screwing me out of all that time I spend past close doing inventory, cleaning, and closing the register. I'm really gonna show that bitch what's been coming her way a long time now. We're all very good employees, couldn't ask for a finer bunch. There's no reason we should be treated this way. Bitch is gonna get beat.