She sits in her holy chair, her dumpster diving throne that is tattered and crawling with roaches. Crying about dying. I imagine she imagines, but not very colorfully. Probably in muted and muddied colors like that of her blackening aura that maybe once was bright, but has long since been graying into clumpy blackness.
I suppose part of me wishes that she did have a brain tumor. At least then I could fathom some reason for all the things she has done, and more importantly, that which she never did.
But no alien microchips were found and no cancerous tissue either, at least in her brain. Now, it’s tumors in her uterus. A nasty place that was once so comforting to me that I stayed nestled there a month longer than anyone expected me to remain secured. Or so I am told.
Crying about dying. Such a waste. I would be a liar if I said I never shed similar death tears, so I won’t. Adolescence, cultural family inheritance, and anxiety can be an irrational bitch sometimes, barking at shadows and chasing its tail. As I grow older, I continue to realize the finiteness of my existence, but I shed less tears about it these days; instead I continue to aspire to do more and be grateful for that which I have accomplished. In some cases, my gratitude is directed towards other people; generally, though, gratitude is just a feeling I keep in a vacuum that makes me feel peaceful due to the chemicals my brain is releasing.
Where is her gratitude? Her bitterness is so nasty it has infected her organs and spread beyond her mind and physical body, becoming an extension of herself for others to see when they visit her heaping pile of trash she calls home. Is she grateful for her trash? Does the chaos with which she surrounds herself satisfy some sick need of hers? Does her holy throne fill some metaphorical hole?
