Fuck up

I don’t know how to fix this. You fucked up and are going to prison and that’s the least of your concerns. You fucked up. Let me rephrase that; you are a fuck up. You’re the reason why doctors created abortions. You’re used to this, the put downs, they’ve become second nature to you. And yes you fucked up again but maybe this time when you attempt suicide, it’ll work. Remember the play/book/movie, “Of Mice and Men,” when he kills Lennie, wish there was someone who’d do that for me because he’s right; I did fuck up and I am a fuck up and every time I try killing myself, I fuck that up too, motherfucker.

Parents put me up for adoption, since they couldn’t take it anymore. They loved me, but . . . Then I got tossed around foster care like a pinball. No, we don’t want him. He doesn’t seem to be a good fit here. Have you tried juvenile detention or the looney bin? And, in case you’re wondering, yes they did. Got kicked out of both of those lovely places. That’s why the best place for me is six feet underground, but assisted suicide is illegal unless you’re terminally ill and I’m not; I’m just an asshole.

But, there is the dark web or as Garth Brooks says, “I have friends in low places “. Look us suicide on the white web and all you get is a lot of help lines to prevent suicide and they haven’t worked; at least not for me. The assistant I need is only give by veterinarians. “The saddest thing I ever did see was a woodpecker at a plastic tree” SS (Shel Silverstein, not the nazis) until they see me. But, no one wants to help end it, they only want to be heroes. The only hero I care about is the sandwich.

But, what did I do this time? That’s always the question. What happened this time? What lame ass excuse do you have for fucking up this time? I don’t know why I did that, what I was thinking, I don’t know. Well I’d better figure it out. I just don’t know. More punishments, less rights. What were you thinking. Guilt is part of guilty in a court. You fucked up. You are a fuck up. You are the fuck up. Sometimes I watch the news and feel like I’ll be the next one in a random shooting. . . But then I hear it . . . The doorbell ringing. It’s gotta be boy scouts selling popcorn or girl scouts selling cookies or maybe it’s another asshole trying to convert me to their version of Jesus Christ. Don’t take His name in vain, take it in the artery.

*

So, you open it and there are cameras and lights. Fuck. Must be the press to interview you over your latest fuck up. Somebody asks if you’re (insert your name here) and you ask who’s asking. Then they say it’s So And So from the Publisher’s Clearance House. Yeah, right. Who is it really? Are you on “Candid Camera”? No, this is the Publisher’s Clearance House. If you sign here, you’ve won $5000 a week every week for the rest of your life. I don’t know how to fix this.

Sign this and this and this. Wait, what’s all this paperwork? Confusing. What if I don’t want to be on a commercial? Then all these people would be bothering me and I’d still be fucked up. You want me to stay out of it unless I have to save you again. Remember, money doesn’t always keep people out of jail.

Therapy hasn’t helped you and cost a fortune, medication hasn’t helped you, hospitals, specialists, nothing helps you so why do you think money will help you? Remember, most people who win the lottery wind up more broke and miserable than before they’d won the lottery. Yes, I know this is the PCH, but it’s the same thing you need an attorney, an accountant, a . . . You’re not listening to me. Yes, you could be rich AND famous, but . . .

Forget it, you fuck everything up anyway. I don’t know how to fix this. If you put this in a high interest account and live off the interest instead of spending the base, this could last you the rest of your life, but why would you want that? You’re such a fuck up.

If you’re so smart, why do I keep getting calls from you when you fuck up? If you were smart, you wouldn’t need me: you’d fix it yourself. This doesn’t fix it, it puts a bandaid on a flesh wound. Within 2 years, you’ll be crying to me saying why didn’t I tell you and I’ll say why didn’t you listen? You’re a fuck up and I can’t fix you.

“How many psychiatrists does it take to change a lightbulb? One, but the lightbulb really has to want to change”.

Fine, grow up, live on your own. You don’t need me but don’t be a boomerang child. You leave, don’t come back. Spend your money how you want it, but don’t come crying to me. Bye. One less motherfucker I got to worry about so get out of here. I’ll give you a refund.

You leave, but to quote, Arnold, “You’ll be back!” I must be psychic? No, but I know a pattern when I see one. You’re independent, you fuck up, you beg for my help, I bail you out. You fuck up again, you beg for my help, you get the picture. I can’t keep undoing this or redoing this. Maybe I need to go to Al-anon and help myself. First put on your own oxygen mask and then help the person beside you or let the motherfucker die.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try try again”. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” Which is it? You don’t know and neither do I so goodbye.