Something is Going on With Our Hero

I wish I could write something that looks like a big mess.

I'd like to write something and make it look like an over-ripe plum of a heart bursting from the strain of too much love, pitting and pocking at the edges of the hardest pull before one weak wall tears and the pressure of hopes and fears pops its mealy fruit through the ripped organ tissue.

I wish I could write something like that but make it be a heart and make the fruit bloody chunks of the only organ we expect to take responsibility for courage, love, fluttering fear, and the core of knowledge that we hold onto and later reference when we make bad choices. I knew it in my heart of hearts.

In my purple, pulsing, squimering heart, I knew it.

So I let it explode my heart into uneven stringy blocks of slimy fleshy veiny junk and watched as they rained down on the desk, landing in the controlled chaos of a simple splatter patter while I watch, fascinated by the depth of color.

Surprised by how much of it there was and how far the blood would carry - to the kitchen even.

But none of that is true.
Nothing has exploded.
Nothing is messy.
Nothing has changed.

Ironically, everything in my entire life is better than it has ever been and that, mes amis, is not an exaggeration.

Now I have to go drink some Diet Coke while I type shit and think about how my life outside of work is finally (finally) waaaaaaaay better than my life at work.

I'll leave you with a scene from last night:
All the FTWs.
"There's a better life and you dream about it, don'cha?"

Yes I do.

arizonasarah at 1:34 p.m.

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